


Just Old Light

by little_abyss, tsurai



Series: Redthorne 'verse [3]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Events Fucked About With, Canon-Typical Violence, Effects of Tranquility, Epistolary, Erectile Dysfunction, Explicit Sexual Content, Inquisitor Merrill, M/M, Mages and Templars, POV Alternating, Sexual Dysfunction, Slow Burn, Tranquil Mages, roleplay format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-30
Updated: 2017-04-20
Packaged: 2018-10-12 19:44:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 115,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10498194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/pseuds/little_abyss, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurai/pseuds/tsurai
Summary: During the final battle, Samson stands with the mages against Knight Commander Meredith; as the fighting dies, First Enchanter Orsino asks him if he will continue to help the mages' cause. In the years which follow the events at the Gallows, as the Redthorne community stabilises and grows, an unlikely series of letters sparks an even less likely attachment.





	1. Chapter 1

_[The scrap of paper is onionskin thin – it looks torn from the flyleaf of a book of the Chant of Light.  The scrawl appears clumsily blotted, the ink smeared in places, as if the writer was in a hurry to see the letter off before they had changed their mind.]_

Right.  You got me.   Seeing you fight was enough to convince me that you know what you’re doing.  

Eyes and ears, right?  Can’t risk myself – won’t risk my brothers or our charges.  Tell me what’ll be most use – don’t want to waste effort on idle gossip.

City’s still a shithole – clean up’s gonna take time.  Ironic that the blast wasn’t what caused the most damage, it was the riots after.  No viscount, no champion – C is trying to show our boys where to squat and lean.  Your lot are frightened – even the tranks are feeling it.  

Doing our best. Will keep doing it.

Let me know.

S.

* * *

_[The reply is scrawled in a spiky but refined hand on a worn scrap of parchment. The back of the parchment bears a list of building materials in another handwriting.]_

S,

I have to confess, I was...surprised to receive your raven. Even more surprised that it knew where to find me, but it seems like half the world already knows where we are.

That you chose to contact me at all brings some relief.

There is little these days that counts as idle gossip. Between rebellions all over the South and rising civil war in Orlais, even the smallest pieces of information could prove vital to our cause. Include anything you might hear of the Free Marcher nobility. ~~The Champion~~ H. has some cause to be concerned about troop movements around Starkhaven, even and especially after the rebellion of their Circle. Also, few of us are in a position to receive news of the Chantry. You would know better than I who best to make use of, there.

I will not ask where you have hidden those who chose to stay, but I hope they are doing well. E[rest of name blacked out] has asked me to inquire after M’s well-being. Were she capable of emotion she might be concerned for him, but I do believe the apprentices asking after him and some of the others has gotten to her, somehow.

I know there was not much time after the battle, but I wanted to say thank you for helping us, now and then.

Sincerely,

O.

* * *

 

_[A worn piece of vellum, one edge sliced roughly as if with a small dagger.  The writing is more laboured, each letter ground hard into the soft material, large blotches of ink staining the pale beige surface.]_

O – Your lot aren’t exactly known for their subtlety.  That dwarf’s not exactly helping your cause either.  Did you know you turned into a giant abomination?  Yeah, thought you’d like that one.

Lotta lies and shit – rumours everywhere. You’re right about the troop movements – that little cunt of a princeling knows his shit, I’ll give him that. Who knows what will happen – odds are they’ll break themselves on the landside walls of Kirkwall’s defences and it’ll all turn out to be the hot air that it seems.

Difficult to tell what the Chantry itself is doing – rumour is that the Divine’s looking for peace, but the Seekers are another story.  The Order itself is in chaos – C and some others trying to hold it together here.  But that’s here.  The Spire’s fucked, Tantervale’s fucked, Ferelden's fucked (no news there, after Kinloch, but even Jaiden, which is saying something).  There’s even some rumours about having us all retreat to Redoubt.  Stupid.  But you asked for everything.   ~~And every day the supply gets shorter, I can’t~~

Doesn’t matter.  I’ll do what I can.  So shove your thanks – I’m not doing it for you.  I’m doing it for my brothers.  And those poor buggers your “heroes” had to leave behind.

M isn’t the same.  Physically, yeah, he’s fine but... He’ll never be the same, ~~and I’ll never forgive that bitch for what she did~~                 ~~he was my friend and~~              ~~Look, it hurts, alright?  Just~~  [ _the rest of the text in the paragraph is obscured by violent scribbling at this point]._

City is rebuilding – but the going is slow.  Every day hangs on the blade edge; talk in the ranks is that the mundane want us to trank the rest, or annul the entire place.  Burn it all, in other words. Thank fuck we don’t have a viscount yet – if they were as useless as that last bastard, there’d be no saving it.

Your lot are talking another conclave, according to rumour.  Fucked if I know what they hope it’ll achieve.

_[The letter is unsigned.]_

* * *

 

_[The vellum is crisp and clean as if fresh off a scribe’s desk, but for the long black imprints of fingers that gripped too tightly seared into the lower corner. A smaller, thin scroll tied with twine is attached.]_

S,

I had heard of V’s book. H. informed me of its contents. I was not impressed, but it gives the Order one less apostate to hunt down, I suppose.

H is keeping a close eye on Starkhaven, but there’s only so much he can do to aid us with so many eyes on him. Has the rebuilding reached a point where it truly could withstand a siege, should the prince chose to march? Word from the Chantry our way is mixed. The Divine keeps her counsel even as the lower tiers cry outrage.

There are disturbing words coming out of Ostwick – rumors that the Knight-Commander at the Circle has been in regular contact with the Lord Seeker these past two months. Have you heard anything to this effect? ~~And please, if there’s anything I can~~    ~~do you need~~   

I have informed E. of M’s condition. She asked no more questions, but requested that I enclose a missive to give to him. I haven’t read it, but the scroll is attached.

 ~~We are not heroes~~ [block of scribbled over text] There are some who think we should go back for those who chose to remain. The greater majority wish to find somewhere to settle first; somewhere that can be fortified should the Chantry choose to declare another Exalted March. Tensions are high, here, though between H. and A. things have been kept in balance. We may have to cross to Nevarra to find somewhere safe to stay. Nonetheless, if the remaining Gallows mages, especially the Tranquil, need somewhere to go, we can send someone to guide them to our location. We’re doing what we can.

O.

* * *

 

_[A piece of palimpsest, worn smooth and reworked, though the ghosts of letters and figures swarm just at the edge of visibility.  The writing is more refined than on previous occasions, more relaxed – as if a storm has passed.]_

Order’s up in arms about the book, truth be told.  Makes ‘em look like a bunch of amateurs at the leadership level.  And then, V. paints all the rest of us as idiots and thugs, and that’s not true.  We’re only what the Chantry shaped us to be.  But when has the truth ever got in the way of a good story, eh?

And piss on that, O - don’t be so naive.  If they wanted to have you that badly, they’ve got the reserve phylactery at the Spire.  It’s going down the shitter there – I hear they’ve got some kind of nutter on the loose, Maker knows what – but that’s where yours is kept.  Don’t forget it.  The leash might be long, but you’ll be one of ours for a long time yet.

Not a threat, O.  I ain’t reminding anyone about you – we got bigger fish to fry.

There’s lots of rumours about the Seekers – don’t know about Ostwick in particular.  We don’t hear much – they’re our bosses, don’t forget, and those snooty bastards don’t tend to fraternise – but there’s some really bad shit.  Lambert used to be a good man, and reasonable, but probably a bit too sensitive to you lot, truth of it – or at least that’s how a lot of the Order thought.  But since he’s gone over to the Seekers, he’s… changed.  Harder.  Sees enemies everywhere.  That’s not good news for anyone in this climate.  There’s one of ‘em close to the Divine though.  They say she did something a couple of years ago, some unlikely shit about blood mages and high dragons – sounds like one of that dwarf’s stories.  Don’t know more than that.  But I do know that if he calls us in, we’ll go.  We’ll have to.  We got our own leashes too, and it just so happens that ours are blue.

M said thanks – don’t know if he remembers E, in all truth.  Passing letters again after all these years.  Seems like the Maker likes His little jokes; though I don’t know if I’d call these shitty ironic twists _funny_.

But if you’re serious about getting people out, let me know.  Might have a few friends from my docks days still.  Red friends.  They’ll help if the price is right, if there’s favours owed.  

And yeah.  I know.  We’re all doing our best.  Pity there’s so much to do.

S.

* * *

 

_[a ripped sheet of parchment, words hastily scrawled over the densely printed text in soft lead pencil]_

They’ve called for the Rite in Ostwick.  Thought you’d wanna know.

_[the letter is unsigned]_

* * *

 

_[a piece of thin vellum, almost completely doused in ink but for a few words at the bottom]_

Thank you. ~~If we don’t make it~~

O.

* * *

 

_[the parchment is soft, one side covered in what looks like part of a recipe for warming balm]_

S,

No doubt you’ve heard by now that Ostwick Circle has fallen. A’s party barely made it in time – H. got some warning to the First Enchanter there – don’t ask me how, there was no time to send a letter – but the mages were ready to fight when the Order stormed in. There were some casualties on our side. ~~How could they~~    ~~They went for the children first~~

We’ve got them out. Thank you – your word was our first and only warning. I can’t express how grateful I am for that.

Check in with V. in a week’s time, if you can. ~~I know lyrium supplies are low~~   He’ll have something for you and your men.

We know this is going to upset the balance. Give me a list of how many people you need to get out now. I’ll pass it along to H. and he’ll make arrangements.

O.

* * *

 

_[Thick parchment with a badly drawn map of Sundermount on one side with a line through it and a message in blue-black ink on the other.]_

Yeah well.  It was a panic move – and don’t think there wasn’t casualties on _both_ sides.  Your lot can defend themselves, I know that.   ~~And course they went for the kids first.~~  Y ~~ou always attack the weakest poi~~         ~~But I know some of those boys were starving for a little blue, they just~~           ~~Some of us just~~                 T ~~here’s no stopping a Templar in those first stages of the withdrawal, it’s like you go a bit~~

Doesn’t matter – can’t explain it anyway.  Thanks for getting there when you did – shit could have been a lot worse, and Maker knows it was pretty fucking bad anyway from all accounts.  But you get no thanks for charity, old man – dealing with that lying dwarf sets my teeth on edge.  Too much like the old days, back on the docks.  I got enough blue for now, and as long as things don’t go too much further down the shitter, I should be alright. _[Three large blobs of ink here, as if the quill has paused while the writer thought about their next words carefully.  There are three words, perhaps_ I might have _, which have been deliberately obscured with thickly drawn lines.]_

List attached.  These are apprentices – not Harrowed yet, no phylacteries – but the Order’s at pains to show people it’s doing things right here, so go slow otherwise the hunters’ll get out before you’re clear, cut you off.  Good luck, old man - that’s all I can say.

Some weird shit coming out of Montsimmard – there’s a senior enchanter there who refuses to side with a fraternity.  Hedging her bets maybe.  Seems well connected – might want to get in touch, or at least feel her out, see which way she’s likely to blow.  Seems like she’d be a good friend to you, if you could get her.  The Spire’s getting worse by the day by the sound of things – sounds like they tried to hush it up, but there’s someone killing weaker mages, and some of us too.  Looks like one of ours – from what I hear these are death by the blade, not by magic – but the Seekers are investigating, according to the little I know.  I’ll be in touch if I find out more.  

S.

* * *

 

_[a vellum scroll, in decent shape and clean but for the writing on one side and an ink sketch on the back of several almost-familiar children sitting in a circle around the fire]_

S,

We’ve found somewhere to stay – there are too many with us now to keep moving as we have been. Your letters should be quicker to reach me, now.

H. has taken over smuggling the mages out. He will contact you soon, though do not ask me how he seems to know just the way to do it. He still has not given me an answer about how he can so quickly hunt down the people he needs to do a job. I’ve asked him if V. is the one providing information, but only received a smug look. After your dealings with him, I’m sure you’re familiar with what I mean.

A letter has been sent to Montsimmard. I hope to receive more news in the next month, but my contact with the enchanters in the south has been, understandably, severely restricted the past decade. Change-around and turnover in the Circles during this time has left much of my knowledge useless barely adequate for our purposes. The same applies to the Spire. H. said he’d take care of this as well, but I am unsure in what manner he’ll do so. The Ch He is not a man know for information gathering, or even thinking ahead very far, for that matter. I daren’t ask how he is going to get anything with the Seekers locking everything down.

 ~~I’m sorry, I know there’s nothing~~    ~~The Templars’ corruption isn’t~~    ~~If we could just talk~~    ~~I hate how both sides must fight like this, is freedom and self-governance so hard~~    ~~Why am I even telling you~~ [an ink splotch that turns into a neat box of blacked-over text]

Please keep an ear out for any further information.

O.

* * *

_[The letter is scrawled hastily, and the writing changes – at first in pencil, then in ink, then pencil again – as if it has had to be stopped and started several times.  The ink is badly blotted, and the pencil is smudged, making half the text barely legible.]_

O, come **on.** It’s daft to stop.  Don’t stop anywhere too long, old man, or they’ll catch you.  And these days, they won’t drag your lot back to a Circle.  

But what do I know?  

And bloody Void, **_do not_**  get that git to contact me.  Fuck sake, I’m already out on a limb enough here.  You can tell him I’ll put ‘em on the road west through the Planasene on the last day of Bloomingtide.  Get that damn fool onto something more useful – like accompanying this lot to wherever you’re holed up.   

I might have to go dark for a while.  Got other holes to dig.  Weird shit coming from Redoubt, and the whole operation here is under investigation.  Seekers fucking everywhere.  One of ‘em – that Pentaghast – is a hound for information.  

Will send word if I can.  But don’t look for it for a couple of months.

~~Sorry O.  I can’t ever seem to help enough.~~

_[The letter is unsigned]_

* * *

 

_[A large page torn out of a log book – the top three entries denote supplies of arrows by bundle, supplies of milled flour by sack, and bushels of elfroot.  The remainder of the available space is taken up with scrawled text, most of which is crossed out, though still fairly legible.]_

~~Fuck.~~                        ~~I don’t know~~          ~~How can~~     ~~I mean half the Order~~    I’m sorry for what it’s worth _–_ and I know it ain’t worth shit.     ~~Maker’s Balls, I get _Fuck the Divine_ but this…~~

By now, you’ve heard.  Don’t know anyone in the entirety of Thedas who hasn’t.  But if you haven’t _–_ the Conclave was a bust.  Some enchanter threw down in a big way, and no matter how you slice it (bad choice of words) our side overreacted.   ~~Some power hungry fucks decided~~      ~~And then you’ve got your rank and file who are just trying~~

~~Fuck sakes, I could do a better job of it than our Knight-Vigilant.  A dead fucking rat could do~~

O, just keep your head down.  Keep **all** your heads down.  And for fucks sake KEEP MOVING.  Split the group, go anywhere _–_ there’s a reason that elven apostates tend to go back to the Dalish, alright?  I’ll give you a clue _–_ it ain’t finding their heritage.  Your little community might be nice in theory, old man, but we’re lurching toward war here, and _[a large blob of ink which may indicate that the writer’s hand has hesitated for a long time before continuing]_ I don’t know.  Just… keep safe.  As safe as you can.

And pay the kid who delivers this whatever you got to give her.  Better yet, get H to pay her.  

_[The letter is unsigned]_

* * *

 

_[the paper is obviously handmade, some sort of plant fiber mashed and pressed almost perfectly smooth in a manner that speaks of either magic or an incredibly skilled artist]_

S,

I know I don’t have to speak to you of tragedy. Two of our own, against all arguments, went to represent us at the conclave. They haven’t returned. ~~I told them not to~~   I suppose we can only be thankful for all the people who did get away, and those of your Order who chose not to participate in such a despicable act.

I know your opinion on deciding to settle somewhere, but it has proven to be much better for us ~~so far~~ than staying on the road where any stray ambush could throw things into complete chaos. Lambert took action, within a week of the conclave, and sent a legion after us. There was a traitor. ~~We should have killed the motherf~~    ~~his own kin~~   He told the Order of our location. Thirty-five men tried to storm the settlement. We got all but two – two hunters injured an apprentice but were taken care of before anyone could realize what was happening. Apparently E. had Templar training before her manifestation.

The spy’s name is Samuel Murray.

H. and A. sentenced him to exile. ~~They should have cut out his tongu~~ e   If you hear of him, or see him… I would not ask you to risk yourself, but if you have a chance…

I doubt there will be any convincing of anyone to move, now that this first siege was put down so easily. I’ll be the first to admit the majority of my people are naive to the ways of the world and especially warfare. I can only pray this new hope of theirs will not be crushed as swiftly as it bloomed.

We received the first of your people two days ago. They are safe. Has M. chosen to stay in Kirkwall? V. sent word if the investigations, but we’ve not heard from him for nearly a month now. ~~If you could~~

H. passed along some more news of the South. Something dark lingers in the Redoubt. ~~Please be careful~~   Watch your back, warn your men if you can.

O.

* * *

 

_[Months and months have gone by – an entire season is past.  The letter looks as if it has travelled hard - first in someone’s pocket or pack, and then as it made it’s way to Redthorne.]_

This has to be the last time I write.

Things have changed, old man.  Couple of months ago, can’t really remember, Cullen left.  Went off to advise this new force, at the request of that Seeker, that Pentaghast.  And now… now the Lord Seeker’s gone and abandoned the Order too, pulling us out from the true purpose of the Order, making us just another martial force in a world which is rapidly becoming full of them.  

And I don’t like it, I hate the idea that we’re just tools to be used to whip the populace, mage or no, back into the line of what the Chantry dictates.  But I know that this shit is going to get worse before it gets better – already there’s Lambert up there with the line of never again.  What happened to him in Tevinter, it’s stained him – and now he’s letting it stain the whole Order. ~~He’s taking away all our purpose – we were meant to protect ‘em, keep everyone safe, and I can’t, I can’t let him do~~      ~~But it’s not like I don’t have my own problems, I mean, I’m just as much to bla~~

I’m on the march.  M. is with me.  As this fucked up… war, rebellion, whatever it is, as it starts to shape up, it makes the supply thin out.  But there’s new stuff, see?  Things might get better.   ~~I hope my~~

I don’t know what happened to your lying dwarf.  

Didn’t take my advice, did you?  From the last letter I got, seems like you seem very impressed with your little group _–_ but thirty five?  That’s nothing.  And you’re right.  You should have killed the traitor.  Setting his feet on the road’s only going to bring you trouble down the path.

Anyway.  I am sorry _–_ sorry it had to end like this.  But I won’t leave M, and I won’t leave my boys. They’re people.  I won’t leave them to be burnt on the pyre like an offering to some dipshit god who won’t even look at ‘em while they burn.

Good luck, O.  We’ll both need it.

_[the letter is unsigned] ~~~~_

* * *

 

_[a hastily scrawled note on a torn scrap of paper.  The letters are large, written in soft lead pencil.]_

We’re two days march from Redthorne.  They’re not looking in your direction just yet, but bloody hell O, get anyo

_[the letter is unfinished and unsigned]_

* * *

 

_[another piece of fiber paper, but covered in blotches and torn on two sides]_

~~Maker’s ass, Samson, don’t~~    ~~You can’t put yourself at risk like this. You’ve already done so much for us~~     ~~it would pain me if you~~

Tell me where you are. A. will send someone to bring you in, if you can make it.

* * *

 

Orsino stares down at the paper blankly, his mind running faster than he can keep up. It keeps flitting from scenario to scenario at lightning-speed. Everything in him screams that he should be warning Samson away – that despite his status as an informant Orsino owes the man more than the trouble that bringing him to the newly-established settlement of Redthorne is worth. They already have Templars camping practically on their doorstep, attacking night or day but no less than once a week when they muster the forces. Already they’ve lost a few mages – not many, but earlier that month Hawke had scowled and told him to keep a steady rotation of battle-capable mages on the walls. The air all around them is fraught with tension, everyone always waiting for another attack.

He worries that if Samson is seen so close to the settlement, he will die either by the spells of frightened mages or the swords of anger-drunk Templars. Orsino sighs, trying to rub away the headache blooming behind his eyes unsuccessfully. He casts one last look at the scrap of paper with only one legible line and stands, folding the scrap in half with a piece of twine. The rough-hewn chair creaks a bit as Orsino’s weight leaves it but he pays it no mind, already heading to the door. A burst of mana dispels the magic of the heating array carved by the doorframe and the room’s temperature instantly starts to drop.

“Bloody-” he cuts himself off, snatching a thick robe off its hook and shrugging it on in an effort to preserve his own body heat. Even without snow, winter in the Free Marches is no mild thing and Orsino can only be grateful for Dalish ingenuity and their methods for heating closed spaces. While he thinks he’ll never truly like the blood-mage friend of Hawke’s, he is thankful for the knowledge she possesses and her lack of compunctions about sharing it with the community.

Orsino picks up his staff last, tucking the letter in his robe as he braces himself and steps outside. A breeze bites at his nose and ears and it’s all he can do not to curse some more and turn back to his cozy cabin. His shoulders tense with the effort not to hitch up around his ears.

“All right, there?” a familiar voice calls. Orsino turns to see Redthorne’s de facto leader heading toward him, a half-grown lynx cub ( _what’s its name, Ser Om-Nom?_ ) padding after him. The man looks strained, but everyone is these days and it hardly bears acknowledgement.

“Anders,” he replies, shifting his grip on his staff. “I’m fine. Just cold.”

The healer hums. “It would be warmer if you waited a few hours for the sun to rise higher. Do you have something to do?” The question is nonchalant, but Orsino knows he expects an answer. He pulls out the letter wordlessly. Anders eyes it, raising both eyebrows as a flicker of blue cracks across one cheek and disappears just as quickly. Orsino wonders what it says about him – about all of the mages here – that the sight of the spirit manifesting doesn’t even make him blink anymore. “Ah, word to Samson then?”

He nods.

“Do you know if he’s bringing anyone? I’m not sure Justice would be happy about playing host to a number of Templars, even if they’re friendly.” The last words hold undertones of bitterness and disbelief, not that Orsino can blame him. However, they both remember Samson fighting for the mages at the Gallows, and Orsino had briefed Anders and the others on the measures the Templar had taken to protect and hide as many mages as he could after Meredith called for the Rite.

“I can’t say, but it doesn’t sound like a large party. Though I have no doubt Maddox will be with him.”

“Ah yes. Well, at least Elise will be happy about that.” Orsino raises a skeptical eyebrow at the other man who only waves him off, reaching down to scratch behind the lynx cub’s ear when it mews. “Maybe not _happy_ , but you know what I mean.”

“Indeed.” A pause. “Do you know if Mahanon is awake yet?”

A member of one of the Dalish clans come to Redthorne, the quiet elf had taken over their makeshift rookery a little over two months ago, and could always pick out the bird that would most reliably find Samson, even when Orsino had trouble telling the ravens apart.

“Last I saw he was leaving the cooking circle, so he should already be back with the birds.”

Orsino thanks the healer and both head their own ways. He weaves through makeshift buildings that continue to be improved as time passes, the mages’ skills in mundane matters like carpentry growing mostly through experience and a little help from other people with trades who travel to Redthorne to reunite with their mage kin. He reaches the rookery with no trouble and doesn’t even need to speak for Mahanon to hold out his hand for the letter.

Orsino tries to quell the hammering of his heart as he relinquishes the paper and watches the other elf attach it to one of the large birds. He wraps both hands around his staff in order to stifle their shaking.

Something is going to happen – there is a lingering feeling of standing at a precipice, the start of something – but Orsino doesn’t know if it will be a new beginning, or the beginning of an end. Only when the raven has launched off Mahanon’s arm and out the nearby window does he cast his eyes down and turn away.

He has a busy day ahead.

* * *

 

“Bird for you, ser!”

Samson smiles a little as he rises from the log where he has been talking with his new Knight-Captain.  Though the lad outranks him, he is young, and none too sure of his own abilities, so Samson likes to offer advice, if the kid reaches out for it.  

Absentmindedly, he holds out his hand to the approaching recruit, who puts a thin roll of parchment into his hand.  “Thanks,” he says, then looks at the boy, “Arnulf, isn’t it?”

The young man beams.  “Yes, Knight-Lieutenant,” he says proudly, “Thank you, ser.”

Samson snorts.  “Only remember it ‘cause I had a dog called Arnulf once,” he grins, then laughs as the young man’s face contorts in confusion.  He whacks Arnulf lightly on the upper arm and tells him, “Only kidding.  Thanks for this.  Appreciate it.”

He wanders away from the fire, saluting his Captain as he goes, feeling the missive in his fist like a burning coal.  The camp is bustling, laughter loud as the sun sets, the Planasene Forest just a smudge on the horizon.  In two days, Samson will be moving on, north again to Tantervale to lead a unit which will bolster the force of a Circle who had recently lost its Knight-Commander.  Presently, the total force encamped here numbers some hundred _–_ only fifty will go north with Samson.  The rest will move east, through Orlais, picking up numbers as they go, making the crossing of the Waking Sea at Val Royeaux.  Seems a wasted trip to him, more a show of strength than anything, when they could have just crossed from Kirkwall and had done.  Samson shakes his head.  

The mud sticks to his boots, sucks at them, and he is careful to remove them before he thrusts aside the canvas.  Maddox turns his blank gaze at him and asks, “Knight-Lieutenant Samson.  Do I have leave to eat?”

“Bloody Void, Mads,” Samson says quietly, and scrabbles on the low table, cutting a hunk of cheese and some dry bread.  He fashions a rudimentary sandwich, hands it to the Tranquil, who tells him in his bland voice, “Thank you.”

“S’alright,” Samson tells him, and watches Maddox for a moment.  The man eats without disgust or delight, just puts the food he is given up to his mouth – chews it – swallows.  He repeats the process mechanically until the sandwich is done.  Then he looks at Samson again.  Samson smiles hopefully and asks, “Still hungry?”

“No thank you,” Maddox tells him, and Samson sighs.  

“Alright,” he murmurs, and tugs the twine holding the scroll closed.  Briefly, he scans the words written, and mentally rolls his eyes.  So the old man hasn’t moved them, then.   _Be it on your own head,_ he thinks, wondering how on earth he’d gotten himself in this position.   Quickly, he looks at the words again, then the blanked out spaces above them, wondering what it was the First Enchanter had wanted to tell him.   _Doesn’t matter_ , he thinks, then looks up, handing the missive to Maddox.  “Burn that, would you?” he asks, and Maddox nods.  Their eyes meet for a moment, then Samson grins.  “Fancy a walk tonight?”

“If you wish it, I will accompany you,” Maddox tells him, and Samson nods, turning toward the small table again, sifting the detritus with his hand until he finds an ordinance paper, which he tears the bottom of.  Quickly, he writes:

* * *

 

_Two wheels sse, eight nnw of planasene.  Give us an hour from midnight.  M will come with me - just us._

* * *

 

He rolls the paper, holds it, as if weighing its worth in his hand and in his heart.  Is this worth it?  Is it something to build a future on?  He glances about, confused, and then his eyes fall on Maddox.   _Maybe not your future, Lee,_ he thinks to himself, _Maybe his though.  If they’ll have him._

He nods to himself, suddenly decided, then smiles at Maddox.  “Steppin’ out for a bit, Mads,” he says softly, “I’ll be back soon.  In the meantime, do us a favour and eat some more of that cheese, yeah?”  He smiles thinly, “Keep your strength up.”

“Yes, Knight-Lieutenant,” Maddox tells him, “I will prepare a dose for when you return.”

“Thanks mate,” Samson smiles, “I’ll see you soon.”  
And hopefully, he thinks, as he walks slowly toward the wagon which houses the birds which they’ve brought with them, hopefully this idiotic midnight meeting will mean that he can see Maddox again, once all this is over.  One more time.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Orsino and Samson meet for the first time in years, and Samson hints that he has a favour to ask.

Orsino shivers and moves closer to the veilfire torch; though it gives off no heat, the illusion of warmth is enough to drive back the chill temporarily. The veilfire makes sense tactically, as it gives off far less light than normal fire while still providing enough to see by. Despite this, he longs for warmer temperatures.

“Ugh, we need to figure out how to enchant cloth against the cold,” Anders grumbles, echoing his own thoughts. It surprised him when the man volunteered himself to come along to this meeting, but Orsino can make some sense of it – the meeting place is far enough outside the defensive weave of Merrill and her apprentices’ root network that there is a very real danger of being attacked without anyone to call on for aid. He supposes he should be most shocked at the healer choosing to leave the Champion behind for this expedition when they usually stay attached at the hip. 

“Unless you have a secret shipment of Avvar cotton no one knows about, I don’t think that will be possible,” Orsino sniffs, tugging his hood further over his head in a vain effort to shield his freezing ears. “We’ll have to make a point of ordering a supply of frostrocks the next time a Nevarran trader drops by. A lesser ice salve would go a long way for some people.”

Anders makes a noise of agreement but says nothing further as the bushes across the small clearing start to rustle. They both tense, Orsino gripping his staff in preparation for an attack. 

Eventually the rustling resolves into two figures, one in armor and the other in robes, and Raleigh Samson steps into the small circle of veilfire light. 

 

* * *

 

He grins nervously at the two figures, wipes a gloved hand under his nose.  Approaching slowly, knowing that at any range almost any mage could be deadly, he calls softly, “Hail there.  We’re expected.”  _ I hope _ , Samson thinks, feeling heavy and slow, even in the lighter armour he’d donned for the trip through the midnight landscape.  It had the benefit of being relatively free of ensignia, making him harder to visually identify as a Templar – though it was still clunky and loud, and he’d have rather gone without it. He puts an arm out, pulling the other man behind him slightly and says quietly, “Mads.  Stay back if you can.  Don’t know who that other guy is, but the short one’s gotta be my contact.  If we’re in the right fucking place.”  He keeps walking forward, hand on the pommel of his sword now as nervousness rises within him, and calls again, “Say hail if you’re expecting us!  Is this Redthorne?”

 

Orsino can’t quite stifle the sigh that escapes his mouth when Samson calls out, his hands unclenching from his staff. He doesn’t lower it, but the relief at seeing the Templar and his companion’s arrival, both visibly unharmed, sends a spark of relief through Orsino’s chest. 

“Hail,” he calls back, voice quiet in the night but carrying across the clearing well enough. “Indeed, you are expected.” He steps closer to them while Anders seems content to stay back. In the eerie glow of veilfire he can’t make out every feature, but Samson’s face carries more stress lines than when Orsino last saw him. However, he doesn’t look nearly as bad as when he first came back to the Order after his banishment, and Maddox seems to be well, his face blank as stone but looking neither underfed nor tired. 

It is a comfort, to see a Tranquil looking so healthy when the last Orsino saw of those not with the rebels, they were starving, beaten, and so careworn they looked liable to blow apart at the slightest breeze. He shouldn’t doubt Samson’s care for the man, he knows, but it is good to see the proof of the Templar’s ideals before his eyes.

Despite the miserable cold and the danger of the situation, Orsino doesn’t fight the small smile winding it’s way over his face when he stops before them. 

“Samson, Maddox. Welcome to Redthorne.”

“About bloody time,” Samson growls, then fills his lungs with icy air.   He releases the pommel of his sword, strides forward the last few paces to stop before Orsino.  He looks… healthy, mostly.  Better than Samson remembers him anyway.  In the low light, Samson studies the elf, wondering what his role in the new community of Redthorne is.  His is the manner of a man whose intellect is such he can be thinking at least ten paces in advance of any given situation, making him seem slightly nervous and irritable. Samson grins, shifts his stance onto the back foot.  “Right,” he says, still smirking, “Now that we’ve dodged the perimeter of our camp, bloody struggled here through all this fucking slush, and frozen ourselves to the bone for the pleasure of your company, I’m findin’ myself a little bit done with this cloak and dagger shit.  Told you who I was bringing.”  He gestures at the other man, the taller one who so far has remained silent, “Are we going inside or what?”  His smile falls away, and he looks quickly at Maddox, then away again.  “Got a proposition for you.”

 

Orsino blinks, then sighs. The man still speaks in the same brash, straightforward manner that always seemed to so annoy Meredith and Knight-Captain Cullen and brought him a sliver of amusement in the Gallows. He shouldn’t have expected that to change in the year since they last spoke. 

“Well…” He tenses a little, not quite sure how to broach the subject of Anders with a Templar, even one who ultimately fought on their side in Kirkwall. Samson was there for the devastation and more importantly, the aftermath, and is no doubt very intimately familiar with the effects of Anders’ actions in the city. Their letters had never addressed the topic – Samson never offered an opinion, and Orsino never dared to mention it beyond opaque references to the mage’s leadership. Anders saves him the trouble of an introduction by stepping forward enough for the veilfire to highlight his distinctive features. 

“I’m Anders. I’m sure you remember little old me, Samson,” the man says, voice not quite mocking but with an edge. “What’s this proposition about, then?”

Orsino fights down his sudden headache.

 

* * *

 

Samson narrows his eyes.  “Yeah. I remember.”  He lets his statement hang in the air, studying Anders for a moment before directing his gaze to Orsino again.  “It’s not for me.  It’s for Mads.”

 

He tucks his hands into his armpits, suddenly feeling the cold.  From the corner of his eye, he sees Maddox shift, feels his gaze upon him.  Slowly, Samson lowers his eyes from Orsino’s and looks at the shine of the snow.  “Sorry, mate,” he mutters without looking at the man beside him, “I wanted to talk to you about it earlier, but…” He shrugs, feeling the weight of his guilt at what he must do, though he knows it is for the best.  Quickly, he glances at the two other men and asks, his voice irritated now, “Can we go inside?  Colder than Chantry charity out here.”

 

 

* * *

 

Orsino snorts, but manages not to outright laugh. “Yes, let’s head back. I want nothing more than a warm fire right now.”

Anders nods his agreement. “You’re welcome here. Good on not wearing the Templar armor, I’m not sure any mage here would wait long enough to hear you out, even with us with you.” Samson shrugs, looking annoyed still, and Orsino frowns momentarily, confused at the reaction.  Anders smirks a little, then motions toward the wall, outlined by the light of the moon shining through tall, bare trees. “We’ll have to meet in your cabin, Orsino. My space is too central and Hawke may or may not be...indisposed at the moment.”

Orsino rolls his eyes and is vindicated when Samson snorts. At least the reason Hawke isn’t at this meeting has become clear – Anders’ space may be centrally located, but few people want to live next to their leader when it gets so loud at night. The healer must have worn the Champion out. 

“That’s fine, let’s go then.” He motions for Samson and Maddox to follow as they turn and head toward the wall.

 

* * *

 

 

Samson glances backward toward Maddox, and his expression curdles.  He can see the Tranquil shivering, though his face betrays no sign of the physical discomfort he is so obviously in.  “Mads,” Samson says softly, and pulls off his gloves, feeling the bite of the chill air, “Mate, put these on, yeah?”

“Yes, Knight-Lieutenant,” Maddox tells him mechanically, and then glances toward the gates.  Something flickers over his features, something so reminiscent of the man he once was that Samson’s mouth drops open slightly, and he turns, scowling toward the two figures who await them.

 

One is small and delicate, almost birdlike, the other taller, stockier.  The shorter one walks out, quickly, going immediately to Anders.  They confer briefly together, then the woman – he sees now, she’s an elf, small, dark hair, her large eyes reflecting the small amount of light like a cat's – she approaches, holding out her hands to Maddox.  

“Hello,” she says softly, staring up at him, holding her hands out to him.  Quickly, she glances at Samson, including him in the greeting, and he inclines his head, wondering what in the void this could be.  “I’m Merrill,” she tells Maddox, and then smiles.  It’s beautiful, that smile, radiant, the vallaslin etched over her features almost seeming to swim above her skin in the low light.  Samson watches, not feeling how his feet are frozen, not feeling anything but the shock in his heart at that wonderful expression on Maddox’s face – confusion.  “I think there’s someone here who’d like to say hello to you again.  Do you remember Elise?”

 

Maddox is silent for a time, and then slowly he puts his hands into Merrill’s.  “I do not… but… I… I… is it possible?”  He blinks rapidly, bites his lips together then blurts, “I remember her face!  I think, I think I remember…” the confusion on his face shifts, grows desperate for a moment, then fades back to blankness.  “No,” he tells Merrill.  “I apologise.  I do not.”

“It’s alright,” Merrill tells him, and glances at Samson again.  “You don’t need to apologise.  Will you come with me anyway?”  She smiles up at Maddox, “We’ve got warm broth!”

 

Maddox gazes at her blankly, and turns to look at Samson, who nods.  “Yeah, go on, Mads.  You’re safe here.  I got boring shit to talk through with these gits.”  He looks at Merrill, narrowing his eyes at her, “Look after him, alright?”

“Oh, yes!” she chirrups, and turns back toward the gates, almost dragging Maddox behind her.  “Come on, Maddox!  Oh, can I call you  _ Mads _ as well?  Ooh, the broth we’ve got is so delicious, I’m sure you’ll love it…” He can hear her prattling as they turn a corner – a door opens, and closes again with a brief noise of wood-on-wood.

 

Samson turns to see the two men staring at him, and he shrugs.  “Where’s this cabin of yours then?  It better be close.  I’ve been hearing good things about this broth too.”  He smirks and shrugs again, following Anders and Orsino as they begin walking again in the opposite direction to the one Merrill and the two Tranquil have gone in.  Samson cannot resist a look over his shoulder as they go.

 

* * *

 

Orsino watches Samson as Maddox departs with Merrill and Elise. For all the man’s nonchalant attitude, it is easy to see the depth of his affection for the Tranquil as well as the protectiveness the Templar can’t quite shed.  _ Knowing this, it isn’t difficult to guess what he will request of us. _ Even with their new lyrium sourced through the Carta and burgeoning trade negotiations with Nevarra, Orsino is unsure what a man like Samson could want from them. The thought of him bargaining for Redthorne’s newly-wrought enchanted pottery is a thought so far past the absurd, it’s ridiculous. 

Orsino holds his tongue, and the walk back to his cabin is silent but for the quiet greetings of the few mages on patrol as they pass. He hears Samson’s steps slow when they walk by but says nothing, knowing without a doubt that any reassurances as to his safety would be unwelcome.

They reach his cabin quickly, and Orsino is startled to see Paloma, one of Merrill’s apprentices, standing by the door with a cloth-covered tray in her arms. 

“Paloma, what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be in bed?” Anders asks before Orsino can speak, and the elven girl dips her head. He has no doubt that if they stood in sunlight he would be able to make out a blush under the girl’s dark skin. 

“Ah, well I was about to go to bed, but got caught up p-practicing with the thorns, you see. And then Keeper Merrill asked me to bring food for you and First Enchanter Orsino and your guest, M-Master Anders,” Paloma stuttered. Orsino catches Anders’ grimace at the titles she uses, and cuts the man off before he can start another lecture about equality and the lack of titles in Redthorne. 

“Thank you, Paloma, the food is much appreciated.” He moves past her, pushing open the door and gesturing everyone through. “Please bring it inside and then head to bed; no doubt Merrill will have more tasks for you in the morning.” 

The girl smiles at him, going first into the dark cabin as Orsino waves past her to spark the torches around the room. She sets the tray on his desk as Anders makes his way to one of the chairs and Samson follows slowly behind. Orsino sets his staff against the wall and presses his right hand to the heating array. It lights orange instantly, a small gust of hot air washing over him and through the room before the array settles back to its painted black, with only the middle rune still alight. 

“Much better,” he mutters, turning back to the room. Paloma dips her head as she leaves, shutting the door behind her. “So, shall we discuss this proposition?”

 

* * *

 

 

“You don’t muck about, do you?” Samson snorts.  He takes a deep breath as Anders seats himself, watching the man closely.  There is something – odd – about him still, but Samson never could place what it was.   _ Doesn't matter anyway, _ he thinks, then shrugs mentally.  What’s done is done.  

 

He smiles slightly as Orsino passes him a bowl of soup, nods his thanks while looking at the fine glazing on the earthen surface.  It feels slightly rough in his hands, but by the Maker, it’s still perfectly hot.  Samson leans over the bowl, inhales deeply and sighs in satisfaction.  “Could get used to this,” he murmurs.  After taking a sip, he shifts a little on his feet, looks carefully from one mage to the other.  Without preamble, he says, “Don’t know where I’m heading next.  Might be going some places that’ll be rough – rough enough on me, even moreso for Mads.  You lot are smart enough to see the writing on the wall, even isolated as you are; times are changing.  And when times change, nowhere’s really safe.”

 

He licks his lips and takes another sip of the soup.  It warms him deliciously, seems rich, full of barley and wheat, potato and leek and carrot.  Without looking up from his bowl, he tells them, “Want you to take Mads.  To the rest of ‘em, he’s just another trank.  I mean, he’s a good smith, better’n most… but he’s more than that too.  He can do stuff to metal, even without magic, that I ain’t never seen before.  And he’s a good teacher, a good observer.  Could be good for you lot.  I can’t keep him with me, at least not for a while.  Keep him here.  Keep him safe.”  

 

He almost says,  _ Keep him safe for me _ , and draws up short at the last words.  Why would they?  They have no allegiance to him – no reason for them not to see him as anything but expendable.  And he is – he knows that.  He sniffs.  “I’ll come back for ‘im, if I can.  And if he’ll let me.  But if I don’t… you know, if I don’t come back…”  Again, Samson trails off, staring into his soup.  He clenches his jaw once, then mutters, “I know it’s an ask.  Another mouth to feed, with you lot still growing this place.  But he’d be good for you.  I think.”  The silence in the room grows, and abruptly, Samson looks up at Orsino.  He hates that look – that pitying, sad look.  “What do you say?” he asks, more gruffly than he’d intended.

 

* * *

 

 

Orsino lets the warmth of the soup seep into his stiff joints but holds Samson’s gaze for a long moment. He feels torn between understanding and a strange sense of...loss. Of course, it makes sense for Samson to ask for sanctuary for Maddox, what with danger all around these days and rumors of Tranquil disappearing in the south. It is far safer for the man in Redthorne than with any Templars, no matter how well-intentioned their leader. Still, Orsino had hoped, naively perhaps, that maybe the informant would stay here at least for a little while – to rest, regroup, or just to restock on supplies. Orsino has questions he would dearly like to ask, given the right time and atmosphere for such.

And though he has an answer ready for the man, the decision is left to Anders, as their leader.

“Of course, Maddox is welcome in Redthorne. We accept all mages seeking shelter, Tranquil or not, regardless of their...use to the collective.” Anders pauses, smiling. “Though I’m sure Boyle would appreciate the help in the smithy; he was midway through his blacksmithing apprenticeship when he manifested…” he trails off, sitting straighter in the hardbacked chair.  Orsino knows that look - the hardening look in his eyes, the thinning of his lips - and something in him wants to reach out, do something.  But a larger part of him is curious at how Samson will react to the inevitable query; so all he does is watch the Templar closely when Anders asks, “The real question here is, what will  _ you  _ be doing once your charge is safely tucked away from harm? Will you continue this path you’ve set yourself on? Even when it will lead to ruin for you and the Order you’ve dedicated your life to?” 

Blue flickers under Anders’ skin, and Orsino sighs, setting the bowl aside before he drops it in distraction. 

“That’s not a fair question, Justice,” he interrupts before Samson does more than take a breath. “He’s our informant, not a martyr, and a good man. His information has saved many lives and continues to do so. We have no right to question his intentions.”

The spirit is out in full force now, mouth set in a frown but not quite angry. He looks about to speak when their attention is caught by Samson’s interjection.

 

* * *

 

 

“Who gives a shit for you?” Samson snarls, looking directly at… whatever that is.   _ Anders _ , Orsino had called him before, but now… now he’s referring to him as Justice.  Something prickles within Samson at the sight of that brilliant blue leaching from the surface of the man’s skin, so like it is to the blue of lyrium.  “What do you know of my path, huh?  Or its ruin?”  He glances at Orsino quickly, furious at himself for an instant and growls, “And I ain’t so good.  Don’t you go thinkin’ I’m some kind of saint, ‘cause I’m not.  Don’t underestimate the power of a guilty conscience, old man.”

 

He clenches his jaw and redirects his glare across the room at Anders, who glares straight back.   _ It’s the only way to save them _ , the tall, robed figure he’s been dreaming about for months after their meeting in the Hanged Man whispers in the back of his head.  Samson has to fight a physical recoil as the whisper continues,  _ the only way to save your brothers from all the pain before them. _

 

The memory is over in an instant.  For a moment longer, Samson continues to gaze belligerently at the man, and then he drops his eyes.  “Look,” he says, struggling to keep his voice even, “What do you care what a stupid old Templar like me does?  I got no power in the Order – I can’t change shit.  It’s all going to the fucking Void anyway.  All I know is that there’s good kids, good people still in it, people who want to help, in spite of everything the Chantry tells us.”  He glances up, sees Anders and Orsino both staring at him, and drops his eyes again,  “There’s good people in the Order.  I know there is.  It’s just…”  He clenches his jaw, looks at his soup and lowers his hands to his lap.  “We’re just weak, that’s all.”

 

The silence rings, clear and bright, and suddenly Samson feels the anger within him boil, tangled as it is with the feeling of helplessness.  He looks up at Orsino, scowling.  “I didn’t come here for this,” he growls, “It’s great you can take Mads, and I’ll tell you whatever else you think might help, long as it’s not gonna compromise my brothers.  But not with this one still here, leader or no.  Take it or leave it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Orsino stiffens when Samson starts to speak, but what he says is enough to give Justice pause instead of flying into a righteous rage like the elf half-suspected he would. The spirit stares at Samson for a long moment, considering. “You speak truth, even if your argument leaves much to be desired.  And though your guilt implies a willingness to change, if you continue on this present course, it will be too little, too late.  You will doom your brothers, the mages you seek to protect, and yourself.” 

Then, because Anders is the decision-maker between the two, the spirit’s eyes fade to brown and Anders sighs in capitulation. “I suppose that’s fine. Orsino is in charge of our internal operations, anyway. He’ll see to it that Maddox is settled comfortably.” 

Anders stands up, far more nonchalant than Orsino expected him to be when neither he nor Justice are known for having a handle on their tempers. The man turns to him and Orsino also rises, the common courtesy so ingrained in him demanding that he show the other to the door. “Elise will probably stake out living quarters for Maddox – no doubt she’ll want to keep her cousin close by. Talk to him and see if working with Boyle is acceptable. Garrett’s planning another excursion in two weeks’ time, so have arrangements made and give us an update before then, hm?” 

Orsino nods, still not quite sure what to make of the man’s sudden ease with the situation, but willing to accept it if it means a Templar and a spirit won’t be getting in a pissing match in his magic-reinforced but still-possibly-flammable cabin. Anders pauses in the door, casting another long look at Samson before he nods and meets Orsino’s eyes again. “Any supplies provided to our...informant are up to your discretion.” With that, the mage sweeps out, shutting the door with a soft wooden  _ clunk _ . The silence left behind is broken only by the crackle of torches and their own breathing. 

He turns back to the room, off-kilter from Anders’ abrupt departure, and despite the intervening moments finds Samson remains in the wooden chair, a half-full bowl of broth still held between his hands. The look on the man’s face is hard to decipher, but something about it tugs at Orsino and he finds himself stepping forward to close the distance between them. 

He expects a snide answer before the question even escapes his lips, but he can’t help but ask: “Are you all right?”

 

* * *

Samson blinks, then looks up at Orsino.  For a moment, he only looks at the elf, who stands not more than an arm’s length away from him now, his large eyes filled with concern.  Something in that gaze makes Samson feel awkward, guilty almost, and he looks back down into his soup bowl and snorts.  “Yeah,” he says gruffly, then lifts the bowl to his lips.  In three quick swallows, he is finished the meal, and he sighs as he lowers the bowl once more and sets it on a nearby table.  “Thanks for that.”  He chuckles, raising his eyes once more to the question in the elf’s and tells him as he begins to rise, “Won’t presume on your  _ discretion _ , old man.  Don’t need anything more from you – feel like I’ve already asked too much.”  He takes a deep breath, clenches his jaw and looks away from Orsino, toward the door, struggling with what he wants to say, feeling a strange loss at the leave he is about to take.  Orsino is a fine man, sharp of wit and tongue, the kind of man that Samson regrets not getting to know better.   _ Time is gone for all that _ , he thinks and sighs, trying to smile.  “Better push off.  Unless... there’s anything I can do for you?”  He blinks again, shifts slightly from foot-to-foot and clears his throat, “I mean, I dunno how much good those letters were, and I dunno if I can do that again  _ – _ where I’m goin’...”  He clears his throat again and sniffs, frowning at Orsino as he folds his arms over his chest.  Maker, was the room always this hot?  He feels a line of sweat trickle down his back and arches his neck, huffing into the silence.  “Go on then.  Ask, if you’re gonna.”

Inexplicably, Orsino feels the need to reach out to the man, to place hand on his shoulder or elbow, to do anything to ease the discomfort so apparent in Samson’s frame. His hands twitch and he covers the movement by pulling his sleeves over them. 

“Yes... I have a few questions,” he pauses, then tips his head back toward the chair as an indication the Templar is welcome to sit again. When the man doesn’t move, Orsino gives in just enough to reach out, gently nudging Samson in the direction of the chair. “Sit for a moment, I need…” He walks to the desk, pulling out a drawer stuffed with letters in neat bundles – the majority of them from one person – and finds the one he wants. It’s the second-to-last letter he received, scribbled over and between the Canticle of Benedictions, and Orsino had long-ago underlined the words that most concerned him in red ink. 

He turns Samson, who still hasn’t deigned to sit. Exasperation bubbles up but Orsino pushes it down and hands the letter over.

“Would you mind clarifying this for me?”

 

* * *

 

Orsino’s touch still burning on his arm, Samson takes the sheet of thin paper.  It is his own writing, but the red underlining marking the passage makes a particular phrase jump out at him.   _ There’s new stuff, see?  We’ll be safe from that at least _ .  His stomach drops, appalled at his own lack of discretion, and then in an instant, he rallies, the lie springing to his mind.  Assuming what Orsino will expect from him, he sneers and thrusts the letter back at the elf.  “What do you think?” he asks belligerently, “There’s a new vein they’ve found.  Lyrium.  I had a taste how it is coming off it – I don’t wanna go back to begging for dust.”  He omits to mention that the new vein is the red stuff – that in his dreams the tall figure whispers of its power, of the new power it will give him.   _ I will raise you up, Samson.  If you will come to me, I will raise you up, and you need never fear for one of your own again.  Your men, as well as those you would protect.   I am the future, Samson.  I will protect you and the Order, the mages which fall under your care  _ – _ I will raise you up so that you might do the work you were born to do.  All you need do is worship me. _

 

He cannot help but swallow heavily, and glares at Orsino, wagging the letter in the air in front of him.  “Go on.  Take it.  That’s all that is.”  He forces a smile, and chuckles, “What?  You know what I am.  I love the blue, and Maker knows it's got its hooks in me.  What else did you think that would be?”  The smile turns vicious, and he growls, “Go on, old man.  You got a theory for everything.  Copper for your thoughts.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sneer isn’t a surprise, but Orsino can’t help but scoff at just how  _ awfully _ the man lies. It’s written in the bob of his adam’s apple and the way his eyes dart to Orsino’s and away.  _ What a sack of shit _ . He doesn’t say that, of course, not exactly. He takes the letter back, folds it neatly, and crosses his arms over his chest. 

He ignores Samson’s challenge to prove himself, instead choosing to dissect the false information presented to him. “Supplies are low due to the Chantry restricting Templar rations, not any particular lack of the substance itself. Discovering a new vein would have no impact on your shortages – the ease with which the Carta provides Redthorne lyrium proves that.” He doesn’t quite bite his tongue at the last tidbit. Samson is lying to him, yes, but Orsino can’t expect any differently if he doesn’t show some trust first, even just in the form of information. He steps back, leaning against the cluttered desk. The ease is mostly for show, an attempt to demonstrate to Samson he isn’t ready to attack just because the man is being antagonistic. 

He taps the folded letter against his arm, looking up at the man. “Care to lie to me again?”

 

* * *

 

 

Samson grinds his teeth together, feels the sharp retort come to his lips before he swallows it back down.  He is silent instead, suddenly very aware of the twitch in his eyelid, the way his nostrils flare.  When Orsino only continues to stare at him, Samson shakes his head and sits.  “Fine,” he sighs, “I lied.  But…” he shakes his head again, not raising his eyes to Orsino’s gaze which he feels still, heavy upon him.  “I can’t.  I dunno if I’m chasin’ a wild nug or what with this.  I just… I won’t, I can’t let ‘em do this to us.  We’re not dogs on a leash, Orsino, no more than your lot.”  He feels the heat under his eyes, the tightness of his throat and harrumphs, trying to clear it.  “If we had control of the lyrium, if we… I mean, the Chantry is fucked, preachin’ a doctrine which… it doesn’t even make sense anymore.  If the Maker was comin’ back, he would have already.  And… look, if I can do anything about the situation that the Order is in, then I’m gonna.”  He hears the petulance in his tone and shakes his head at himself.  “And it’s not ‘cause I love it so much.  I’m no Meredith, out for purity and  _ back to the old tradition _ .  I know we got faults.  But I lay those faults at the door of the Chantry, who’re too busy spreadin’ hate and division…”  He sighs, “Don’t know if you’ll ever understand it, and honestly, I can’t ask you to.  But I ain’t takin’ Mads along on what might be…”  He pauses, swallowing heavily once more, realising the truth for the first time.  “Where I’m going, what I’m about to do…” he tells Orsino slowly, his voice low, “It might kill me.  I’m not trying to be dramatic, but that’s the truth.  So.  There it is.  As much as I’m gonna say on it.”

 

* * *

 

 

Orsino lets out a long, slow breath. It’s so easy to forget sometimes, in the space between moments, how much bigger this is than just them. There are so many factors at work here, loyalties lost and returned not the least of them, that Orsino supposes he can let this slip by. If the information turns out to be important down the road...well, he can only hope the impact isn’t too devastating for his people, or for Samson’s. 

He sets the letter on the desk, resting his hand there for a moment before looking back up at the man. “Very well, I...understand.” He pauses, unsure what to say next.  _ You need to protect your brothers, just as I do mine, _ or  _ I can only hope you succeed, _ or even perhaps  _ You needn’t do this alone.  _ He speaks none of these, though. Anxiety gnaws at his stomach, urging him to step forward and take Samson by the shoulders, to shake him and shout,  _ Maker’s Ass, just let us help you, you stubborn man!  _ Instead, he asks: “Can you at least tell me where you are going?”

 

* * *

 

 

Slowly, Samson shakes his head.   There is a long pause, and then suddenly, he raises his eyes to Orsino’s face and barks a short, sharp laugh.  “You really care, don’t you?  After everything that went on in Kirkwall, after everything that my Order did to you, you still care.”  

His throat is dry – he does not want to end this… whatever this is, whatever it might have been under different circumstances. Certainly, he respects Orsino, his unswerving belief in rational argument, in the immutable nature of truth.  But there is more here too, isn’t there?  Part of him finds the mage’s fierce intelligence hugely attractive; his intelligence, his ambition, the way he moves his hands through the air as he talks, like larks chasing each other mid-flight.  The way in which his eyes narrow and his lips part slightly as he thinks.  Samson clears his throat and looks away again.  “Can’t believe it, old man.  I mean, I know I’m not one to talk, but… wouldn’t it be better for everyone if you just… hated us?  Maker knows, a lot of the other mages here must do.  And you’ve cause to hate us more than most, I know it.  If there really was a Void, we’ve both seen it; because it was the Gallows.”  

He narrows his eyes, hardly feeling how his fingernails dig into his sweating palms, still not daring to look at Orsino.  “No.  I won’t tell you where I’m going.  From this point, I guess all bets are off.”  He takes a deep, shuddering breath, swallows, then rises.  “Tell Mads goodbye for me, right?  I’m a sentimental old shit when it comes to him.”  He smirks, pulling the facade of his nonchalance over himself again, “Couldn’t stand for him to see me blub like a little kid.  I better push off.”  He pauses, chances a look at Orsino once more and tells him, “Been good to see you.  I don’t think we’ll get the chance again – if I can, I’ll send for Mads in a couple of months.  But if you don’t hear from me by next summer…”  He shrugs, shakes his head, hoping Orsino will catch his meaning.  “I mean it, old man.  It has been good.  And…”  There it is, that feeling of hotness under his eyes as the tears come close again, “Thanks.”  

With that, Samson turns, and begins to stride toward the door.

 

* * *

 

“Wait!” Orsino doesn’t pause to think, there isn’t time and there is still so much he wants to say. Instead he hastily steps forward, grabbing at Samson to stop him from reaching the door. His hand closes around warm skin, rough with sword calluses, and Orsino pauses, giving the man opportunity to pull away. Samson doesn’t, but doesn’t turn around either until Orsino tugs at the hand. The warrior towers over him, looking down at Orsino and then their joined hands, his previously thin veil of nonchalance giving way to an air of bewilderment. 

Heart in his throat, Orsino opens his mouth to say something, anything to brush away the sudden awkwardness that rises between them the longer he doesn’t speak.  _ Let me help you _ . The thought dies stillborn on his tongue. 

There is no way Samson will accept his, or anyone’s, help now. And the emotions bubbling up in Orsino’s chest clash with each other, tangling in such a mess there’s no way he can pick them apart in order to express them. And Samson is still looking at him with those dark eyes…

Orsino swallows, brings his other hand over until Samson’s is trapped between his palms, and squeezes. It’s meant to be a gesture of comfort, solidarity, and maybe a hint of apology. He’s not sure how much the man understands, but he hopes the slightest droop he sees in his shoulders isn’t just his imagination. 

Eventually, he lets go. “I...will escort you to the gates. It’s best you’re not seen alone here.” He sighs, looks away. “Just let me get a few things.”

 

* * *

 

 

Samson watches the elf turn away, bites the inside of his cheek against the words which want to come.  But it seems it is too late – for now, he is the one who lunges forward, capturing Orsino’s hand in his.  Orsino looks at him again, surprised, and Samson takes a deep breath.  “I… Look, it’s…” he struggles, frowns and licks his lips, his grip tightening around Orsino’s long fingers.  “Aw, piss on it,” he mutters, and shakes his head, looking up into Orsino’s eyes again.  “You don’t have to be so nice to me, alright?  I know what I am – you don’t owe me anything.  I just… I wish I coulda done more.”  He realises, all of a sudden, that he is almost panting, his mouth hanging open, every muscle tensed – this is a pivotal moment, and it seems his brain is only just catching up to the fact.  He’d half expected the elf to have struggled free of his grip by now – why hasn’t he?  Orsino’s hand feels cool in his, a long patch of callous along the palm, similar to someone who would wield a greatsword but obviously in his case, from using a staff.  Maker, it has been so long, too long, since he’d wanted this, and now, _now…_ _Bloody typical,_ he laughs at himself, _bloody typical of you to want to kiss this bloody brave bastard.  As if he’d want you._  He sighs, shakes his head and looks down, somewhere in the region of Orsino’s chest.

 

“‘Sino,” he mutters, his voice low, husky, “I…”  _ don’t know what I want _ , is what he’s trying to say, but it sounds wrong, even in his head.  He  _ does  _ know - he knows that what he wants right now is to lean forward and down, to move his face close to the elf’s mouth, to see if he will reach out for him, to see if he wants this too.  Words always fail him at a time like this.  He licks his lip again, bites it, then loses his nerve.  “I’m sorry,” he tells Orsino, and lowers his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 

The voluntary contact is a shock, but it is Samson’s murmur of something that sounds far too much like an affectionate nickname that sets his heart pounding in his throat, even before Orsino registers just how close the man is suddenly standing. How torn his voice sounds, how his eyes drop to Orsino’s mouth and then away. There he stands, his hand in Samson’s this time, and this man wants to kiss him. 

Orsino freezes for a fraction of a moment – this, this is not something he’s considered. Not for many years, and definitely not in relation to Samson.  _ This tired Templar who cares for mages and his fellows enough to die for them. _ His cheeks start to heat until he can feel his heartbeat in his temples. And he’s frozen too long; Samson stiffens, stops biting his lip and starts to pull away. 

It’s enough to jolt him into action, but Orsino doesn’t know what he wants. Not yet.

What follows is pure impulse. He raises his empty hand – Samson stiffens even further but doesn’t resist or move away when Orsino presses a hand against his cheek, turning the man’s head just enough that Orsino is free to rise on his toes and brush his lips, feather light, over the corner of Samson’s mouth. The man sucks in a breath that is not quite a gasp and Orsino steps away. His chest throbs with a tangled knot of feelings that seem liable to burst their way out at any given moment, and he would bet ten gold his ears are as red as they feel. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” his mouth says without his permission, but he will not take it back. Instead he refuses to meet Samson’s gaze, pulling away and out of the man’s grasp and turning to fetch the satchel he was so determined to get to before.  _ Don’t think _ , he tells himself, but it’s no use when one part of his brain is gibbering in disbelief at what just happened. The other part is racing, weighing this moment’s potential fallout, actions and reactions, already plotting ways to get out if this turns bad, how to avoid talking about it, what happens if he  _ kisses him aga- DON’T. _

 

* * *

 

 

That hand on his cheek, cool touch on his overheated skin.  The soft, sweet brush of Orsino’s lips against his mouth.  Samson sighs out the breath he’d caught as Orsino had kissed him, unwilling to move any more than that for fear of breaking the moment, even as he watches the other man pacing about the room, collecting items.  Stupid.  Maker, so stupid, what was he thinking?  He is not here to become more entangled, to pick up another reason to care about the world.   _ Beautiful though, wasn’t it _ ? he asks himself, and raises a hand to his lips, dropping his eyes to the bare boards of the floor.

 

Silently, Samson considers.  If there were any chance that Orsino would not try and talk him out of pursuing what the figure in his dreams has been promising, if there were any chance at all that he would understand, then surely, he should tell him what his plan is.  And Maker, but he wants – he wants someone to cling to with his whole self, wants more of that sweet, almost shy mouth on his.  He wants more of the tender ferocity in Orsino’s tone as he’d told him not to apologise, that there was nothing to apologise for.  He knows there is no tenderness where he is going.  

 

But it is not right, after all Orsino has been through, to burden him with Samson’s guilt as well.  What he does, what he will do, runs contrary to Orsino’s best interest – and even through the fog of lust, or loneliness, or whatever this is, Samson can see that.  He sighs, closing his eyes as he remembers the faint rasp of Orsino’s hand against his stubble, the press of his nose into his cheek.   _ Just once more can’t hurt _ , he hears the weak part of his mind ask, and in the same mental breath tells himself,  _ It’ll hurt more if you keep going.  For both of you. _

 

He opens his eyes and realises, with a sudden awkwardness, that Orsino is now standing in front of him, and that his own fingers are still pressed to his lips.  Samson clears his throat, rubs his mouth and drops his hand before raising his eyes from the floor to scowl at Orsino, who raises his eyebrows in return.  Silently, he hands him a satchel, the kind with the long strap, almost a saddlebag.  “Oh good,” Samson smirks, trying desperately to cover his disquiet, “Did I win something?”

 

* * *

 

 

It’s almost painful to watch the mask descend back over Samson’s face, but Orsino bears with it. He shakes his head at the man with a small, tired twist of his lips. “Nothing to win here, unless you wish to join the apprentices in their daily contest to see who can throw the biggest fireball without sending themselves to the infirmary. I believe Brigit is our current defending champion.” Orsino pauses, trying to gauge if their levity has lightened the atmosphere any. The silence between them is fallow, and he sighs. 

_ By the Void, what would we even talk about, after  _ that _? _

He sighs and gestures at the satchel. “A few things that may be useful. If you don’t wish to keep them, distribute it among your men as you see fit.”

His face feels less heated, though he’s sure traces of the blush still remain. Orsino tears himself away, back to his staff and another cloak hanging on the wall. He throws the new garment over his own, hoping the double layers will be enough to keep the chill from his bones. “Dawn is a few hours away, yet, but I understand you must return to the camp before sunrise…” Orsino trails off as he touches the heat rune and it deactivates once more before he finally turns back to look at Samson. “Are you...sure you don’t wish to say goodbye?”

 

* * *

 

He nods, the smirk sliding off his face.  “Yeah,” he says slowly, hefting the bag’s weight over one shoulder, hearing a faint clank from inside.  He will have to ditch it before he gets to camp, lest he raise suspicions about where he got the no-doubt magical items within.  “I’m sure.  If Mads asks after me, just say I’m… just say I’m busy, but I said I’ll be…”  But he cannot bring himself to lie again to Orsino’s face – he does not know if he will be back for Maddox or not.  There is no telling if the red will treat him any better than it did Meredith; in all probability, he will lose his mind to it the way that she did.  He shrugs, raises his chin and smiles at Orsino.  It feels false and brittle on his face and he drops his eyes.  “Tell him whatever you want,” he says gruffly and sighs again.

Orsino nods, and pushes the door open, taking a torch from the sconce by the door.  The blast of chill wind from outside stops the breath in Samson’s lungs but the elf presses forward, into the teeth of it, and Samson follows after a moment's hesitation.  It smells like snow is on the way – early this year he’d guess, though he’s not been this far north-west in a long time.  This is almost Nevarra, if you can believe the maps.  Samson hunches his shoulders against the wind and looks east, seeing the way that the skyline is beginning to grey.  A few hours yet, as Orsino said.  Then tomorrow, he’ll begin the road north again with his small band, swinging east as the roads allow, back toward Tantervale.  After that… after that… well.  He’ll speak with the men he’s selected – the green Knight-Captain had allowed him the privilege of selecting the troops he’d deploy to Tantervale – and see how the wind blows with them.  But either way, after Tantervale, Samson will seek the one that in his dreams is called Corypheus, and the fulfilment of the promises he’s made.

He swallows hard, suddenly frightened.  They’ve almost reached the perimeter fence now, and quickly, Samson looks at Orsino, dimly lit by the veilfire torch he carries.  In vain, he tries to memorise the lines of his profile, the thoughtful expression on his face, the phrase  _ last time, this is the last time _ , dancing in his head.  “‘Sino,” he says, without really meaning to, and is shocked at the pleading tone in his voice.  He takes a deep breath full of frigid air, sighs it out again on a cloud of steam, and harrumphs, then grins, “Try not to miss me too much, old man.”

 

* * *

 

His chest tightens again at the nickname and the tone, but Orsino keeps his shoulders straight as they come to the tall arch of arm-long thorny briars that serve as Redthorne’s gates. Part of him wants to touch Samson again, even just a reassuring squeeze to the elbow joint of his armor, but Orsino refrains. Somewhere between leaving the cabin and now, dread started to take root in his stomach, choking out the awkwardness. It whispers that there is a very great possibility he will never see Raleigh Samson again after this night, and Orsino is afraid that if he allows himself touch he won’t be able to make himself let go. 

Instead he meets the man’s eyes with a wan smile. “I will do my best to refrain from pining too much,” he says, trying not to read too deeply in Samson’s cracking expressions. He wants to say something to the same effect,  _ don’t miss me _ , but he’s sure it’ll come closer to sounding like  _ please don’t die _ , so Orsino says nothing more. 

He turns to the gate, holding up his free hand toward the thorns as a green glow envelops his fingertips. Unlike Merrill and her apprentices, he has no talent in the Keeper magics, but the plants acknowledge his control anyway. With great effort, the briars sluggishly part until a path just a little taller than a human man peeks through to the other side. He tells them to hold position with a twist of the hand and a grunt of effort – they want to fall back into place immediately – and finally turns back to Samson. 

“The way is clear. You’re free to return to your brothers.” Orsino bites the inside of his cheek, but well aware of the irony of two near-atheists expressing such a sentiment, he lets the next words slip anyway: “Maker keep you, Raleigh.”

 

* * *

 

 

Samson snorts and arches an eyebrow, looking at Orsino with a smirk.  “Yeah,” he says dubiously, then sighs.  “Though I’d rather not trust to that git.  Keep yourself safe, eh?  I’ll… do my best.”

 

There is no more to say, and yet still he lingers.  His breath is short, laboured, and he can feel the chill wind as it touches him with light fingers in the joints of his armour, caressing under the layers until it finds his bare flesh.  He opens his mouth, meaning to tell Orsino something of the strange feeling of terror which has begun to consume him, then changes his mind.  

 

“Better push off,” he says reluctantly, indicating the gap between the thorns and grins, “Don’t close it up on me, alright?”  When all he receives in response to this weak jest is another small, tired smile, Samson sighs again.  “Won’t be able to send any more letters,” he tells Orsino carefully, “I mean, I will if I can, if you want, but I can’t get ‘em.  Can’t be two way communication, is what I’m trying to say.  I will if I can,” he repeats, and scowls, averting his eyes from Orsino and shifting from foot to foot, “If you want me to.”  He pauses briefly, then reaches out a bare hand quickly, taking Orsino’s hand and raising it to his lips.  He does not look at Orsino as he mutters, “I want you to, ‘Sino,” kisses the gloved knuckles quickly, then drops the elf’s hand and steps away.

 

* * *

 

“I…” Orsino’s breath stutters in his chest and he finds himself unable to catch it again. His hand clenches and releases (somewhere in the back of his mind he thinks  _ why did I have to wear gloves  _ before he mentally pulls away). Out of all the unexpected moments filling this night, what just happened is perhaps the most shocking, if only for the feeling of...romanticism in Samson’s actions. It’s unexpected and it makes his stomach flutter. Orsino swallows. “I do. Want you to write.”  _ If only to let me know you’re alive _ . 

Samson nods once, steps back further and nods again.  “Right,” he says and has to clear his throat when it comes out wobbly.  “Right then,” he tries again, and scowls at Orsino.  “Well, I will then. I’ll try.”  He clears his throat again, looks at Orsino once more in the waning moonlight and turns, trudging through the path which Orsino has opened for him through the thorns.  He doesn’t look back until he hears the crackle of the branches behind him, until he knows that it is too late to go back.   _ Mads,  _ he thinks, swallowing hard, feeling the clench in his guts, wondering what will become of the Tranquil, if they will ever see each other again.  And then there is this… this new feeling, this strange… thing between Orsino and himself.   _ You’re just lonely _ , he chides himself, and rubs his eyes, surprised when he finds them a little wet.  It does not matter.  Redthorne stands closed to him now – the only path is the one which lies ahead.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One year later, Orsino and Samson realize their diverging paths have set them against each other.

_[A year has passed, when one day Orsino receives a road-weary parchment.  The writing changes as it moves over the page_ – _at some places delicate, in others the letters are driven into the parchment with such force that it has almost created holes.]_

O – It’s been long and longer since we talked, old man, but I still remember you.  I remember what you said about the letters too – and since Mad’s with me now, I thought I’d write and thank you.  For everything you’ve done, but most of all for keeping him safe for me.  He’s doing well – the bastard still hardly sleeps, but when I ask him, he speaks highly of you all.  Tells me he felt useful, which is about as close to saying “I loved it there” as he gets.

We’ll be moving south in a few weeks.  The one I serve has put me in charge, raised me up like he said he would.  A general – who would have thought?  He’s promised that the world will change – the Chantry will burn under his heel, and honestly?  I believe it.  I want it. They kept my brothers and sisters so weak, and they never knew what we had – they never knew what we were.  They’ll find out too late, when the red storm comes crashing down on them.

I made myself laugh imagining your face at the last line there.  I know I sound dramatic, alright?  But all I want is to make some space for all of us, to kill this fear that the Chantry’s lies have set.  Can you understand?  I think you can.  And I think that part of you knows that sometimes you have to burn things down before you can start again.  

My boys know that.  Some of ‘em are changing, some of them taking longer, but I walk around the camps and I’m amazed.  Their strength now is… it’s something almost _holy_ , old man.  Some of ‘em are hard to look at, but they’re mine, they’re my men – or better yet, they’re their own.  They’re free.

Yeah, I still remember you.  I remember your face in the moonlight, the way your voice sounded, the way it felt to say your name.  Seems like another time.  I hope you’re well, that your place is thriving.  Can’t imagine why it wouldn’t be, a bossy git like you in charge of it.

Burn this.

S.

* * *

 

Orsino sighs and drops his head into his hands. His cabin is a wreck: boxes of supplies and requisitions are piled floor to ceiling, many of them filled with enchanted pottery set to be sent to Nevarra and Orlais within the week, some of the herbs strung from the ceiling for his personal use have become dry enough to drop leaves all over the floor, and his desk overflows with documents and used inkwells he hasn’t the time to refill.

Merrill announced her intent to attend the Divine’s conclave two days ago. What followed was a firestorm of protestations – Hawke and Anders insisting on attending themselves; arguments that they were far too recognizable and would be killed before they got within a league of Haven, let alone the Temple of Sacred Ashes; innumerable others volunteering to take her place, from several Dalish elves to one of the noble-descended mages from Ostwick; Orsino’s own pointed suggestion that they send no one at all. They’d already lost two at the last conclave, who was to say anyone they sent would come back? _“Void take me before I send another of our people off to die!”_ he’d shouted.

Now, Orsino curses his short temper. The others stopped listening to him then, bringing the argument back to who was to attend, and the elven woman eventually won out against all odds through a combination of puppy-eyes and uncharacteristic anger.

 _“I am a Keeper of Redthorne and it’s my job to do what is best for our clan and our people. We have more mages and others coming to us every day_ – _we need to make sure we stay safe!”_ Merrill won her way, creating more stress for everyone when she refused an escort. _“I can take care of myself, silly.”_

If his hair was not already grey, Orsino was sure that argument alone would have left it bone-white. As it stood, it was all he could do not to tear it out.

And with all of that still lingering in his mind, Mahanon had handed him a letter this morning.

Orsino runs a finger over the parchment, still leaning into one palm as if it’s the only thing keeping his forehead from hitting the desk. Perhaps it is – his eyes skim over the words, not really seeing the phrases which he had memorised on his fifth read.

Samson. Orsino’s tried not to dwell on the man over the past year, but it has been difficult. Even the thought of him still brings emotions roiling up under his skin the way they never did before that night. _Maker’s Ass, it was just a kiss!_ he tells himself again, however ineffectually. And now this.

The letter is concerning in myriad ways, news of Maddox’s safe return to Samson aside. Alarm shoots through him every time he reads the second paragraph – Orsino is no stranger to lofty goals, but destroying the Chantry? That kind of rhetoric sends warning bells pealing in his head. Who is this shadowy leader that could inspire the devotion of such a jaded, cynical Templar as Samson? “ _I believe it. I want it.”_ The fanaticism eking through those words...hurts in a way. Samson wants what is best for his brothers and mages alike, but it shakes Orsino to see this hint at just how far the man is willing to go for it, to the point of ignoring how incredibly suspect the entire situation is. Of course, Orsino could be missing something, some piece of information the man didn’t deign to share, but…

The thought niggles, at the back of his mind, that Samson may just have changed his mind about mages – that he’s decided that his Templar brothers come first and last in this new equation. Orsino pushes it out of his mind, refusing to linger on the thought until he has proof, something to make the disappointment yawning in his chest real or to drive it out completely.

And the last paragraph. He might have put their encounter a year ago to something passing, the kind of fancy that two people so entangled and lonely occasionally indulged in. But he could still remember the way the man looked when he pressed a kiss to Orsino’s hand, the gravelly pitch of Samson’s voice as he murmured Orsino’s name almost like a prayer. It still makes something twist in his guts at the mere thought.

He doesn’t want it, not now when there is so much going on around him and even more inside his head.

Orsino clenches his fist, crumpling the parchment in his hand to hold into open air. With a quick thought it flickers into flame, then to ash in the space of a moment. The dust crumbling through his fingers feels far too much like a metaphor for his comfort.

* * *

 

_[When the next letter comes, it is spring, and war is everywhere in the world outside of Redthorne.  The parchment is fine, clear of blemishes, and the writing is much steadier than the previous letter.  However, the bird it arrived on had suffered damage to its wing on its trip, what looks like a wound from an arrow.  It dies shortly after its arrival.]_

O –

By now, maybe you know.   ~~What we’re doing here is supposed to help~~           ~~It’s not that I ever, I mean, I never~~     ~~Trust me, it’s bet~~     ~~I dreamt about you after Haven fell and~~ _[several more lines of blanked out text]_

I’ve sat looking at those words for far too long, changing my mind and changing it back again.  And I don’t have time – we’ll be on the march again soon – so I’ll say what I have to say and have done.  Every time I see that bowl you gave me, I think of you, wonder how you are.  And I guess I got feeling… not guilty, but… maybe like what we’re doing might need some explanation.  I feel like I owe you that.

It’s not us against your lot – it’s not the Order against mages.  I know it seems that way, Void, I know it feels that way to me some days.  But what we’re doing, we’re doing for everyone – trust me, it’s a good thing that the Inquisition’s out of it.  

Every day our strength grows, and my proving continues.  Maker, it burns – it’s like drowning in fire, but in the end, it’ll make me worthy to stand at his side.  I wish you could be here with us, to see what we’re building in the Chantry’s place.   I mean it, O – always a place for talent like yours.

Nothing much more to say, really – apart from asking you to burn this.  This is no time for sentimentality, old man.  We do what has to be done.

S.

* * *

 

The letter burns betrayal in Orsino’s pocket.

It came on the heels of news about Haven and Merrill’s once-again miraculous survival and the Red Templars and Corypheus and _Samson_.

“I’m going,” he told Hawke and Anders, leaving no room for argument. “Redthorne needs you both, there are others who can take on my duties, but I need-” he’d broken off, choking on the words.

It was Justice who helped him pack the necessities, the spirit not commenting on the shattered pottery lying in the corner, the crack in the wood of his desk, or the ashes of burnt parchment scattered over the floor. He didn’t speak when Mahanon came to the door and silently handed Orsino a scroll. He didn’t say a word when the elf opened it with shaking hands, or when he crumbled to his knees, uncertain whether to cry or set the entire cabin aflame to mirror the anguish burning in his chest. Justice said nothing, silently reading the letter then handing it back to Orsino with an expression that could have been carved from lyrium-veined marble.

The spirit gathered Orsino’s books and the letters from Merrill detailing her observations on the corrupt lyrium near the Breach-mouth. He wrapped them in waterproof cloth as Orsino pulled himself together with painstaking care, folding the letter with slow motions and tucking it into his inner pocket before taking the bag Justice offered him.

He would not follow instructions on its disposal this time.

Orsino departed for Skyhold the next day, accompanied by Enchanter Maxwell Trevelyan and the Tranquil Elise, decked in armor bearing Redthorne’s crest and blank-faced as always. Half of Redthorne came to see them depart. Justice caught a hand around the back of Orsino’s neck, squeezing in what the elf thought was meant to be reassurance. “You must be strong,” he said, before fading back to Anders.

The healer smiled sadly at him. “Take care of yourself.”

Now, standing at foreign shores in Cumberland with the far-too-familiar smell of the ocean on the air, Orsino closes his eyes and presses a hand over the pocket where the letter is stored, crumpling a little more every day.

Merrill told them in previous correspondence of her conclusion that red lyrium was simply blue that carried the Blight. Though long, rambling off on several tangents, the Keeper managed to convey that something could be done about it. Only on questioning Hawke did Orsino manage to confirm that the mirror – the eluvian – so often alluded to in Varric’s books had been corrupted during the Fifth Blight, but somehow Merrill managed to completely repair and cleanse it over the course of her decade in Kirkwall. It was...a phenomenal revelation, one that could change the course of future Blights and research for the better in the coming conflicts.

But such things take time, and they don’t have a decade to spare for the Red Templars, nor for the spires of red slowly spreading from the site of the Breach. Varric took pains to detail the effects of the corrupted lyrium in _The Tale of the Champion_ , from how it warped the mind to the eventual complete stonification of its wielder that Orsino had witnessed with his own eyes.

_“But there’s new stuff, see?  We’ll be safe from that at least.”_

Orsino’s hand curls into a fist. How long had Samson been taking the red variety? Long enough, it seemed, for Corypheus to worm his way into the Templar’s mind, to convince him he had the right of it. That _this_ was the way to make things right, to make them better-

The parchment makes a slight crinkling sound through the cloth. He releases his tension immediately and opens his eyes to look out over the harbor at the ship his party will soon be boarding. Nevarran sailors and traders bustle around him, paying no mind to the eclectic group in favor of pushing, lifting, shouting in the tongue Orsino has become fluent in over the past year.

 _“I dreamt about you after Haven fell and…”_ The words were barely legible under the scribbling and the thought of them still makes his eyes burn.

 _No, you do not get to write such things_ , he wants to shout, _you can’t share one moment in the lull of our battles, then turn against me, turn against_ us _, and still expect me to-_

“First Enchanter Orsino,” Elise interrupts tonelessly. He straightens, turning to her with a nod of acknowledgment. She wears a hood even in the strong spring sunlight, the deep shadow of it concealing her brand. “The ship will depart within the hour. Enchanter Trevelyan expressed his wish to meet aboard when he returns with supplies for the journey.”

Orsino sighs. “Very well, let’s go.” He brushes fingers over his pocket one more time before he switches his staff to that hand and follows the woman into the crowd.

* * *

 

 _[When the Redthorne raven arrives at Skyhold, it is holding three letters.  The first is short, almost curt in its tone_ – _the second and third are longer.  One has a tell-tale red-brown smudge in one corner_ – _what can only be a bloodstain_ – _and is torn in several places.  This letter is in the familiar rushed cursive of Samson’s hand.  The other is pristine, the parchment smooth, if a little tatty at the edges due to its long journey.  The hand in which this letter was written is familiar to Orsino_ – _yet he cannot say why until he reads the name printed at the bottom.]_

**I.**

ORSINO – 2 STHN BIRDS FOR YOU.  ATTACHED UNREAD AS PER A.’S INSTRUCTION.

REGARDS,

MAHANON.

**II.**

O –

Is it cruel, this?  I can’t tell any more.  I feel, some days, like it's beyond selfish, beyond stupid – that I should be looking to higher goals, ignoring… this.  I’m sure it’s better for both of us, for me to ball this up and chuck the fucking thing in the fire.  Saves you the hassle.  Doubt you’re reading my letters anymore anyway.

I just… I need… I don’t know.  Something to hold onto.  I know, I know, I’ve got the troops, I’ve got the plans and all the… everything. It’s not like I’m short on things to do, that I can waste time mooning about like some Maker damned, love-struck fool.  And fuck, like I can burden you with this too – like I have any right to any of your affection.  I don’t, I know that.  And I don’t even know if that’s what this might be – some days I think I’m just lonely.  

Other days, I wonder.  

I always seemed to need other people more than most.  Used to drive my brothers and sisters nug-shit.  I’m the youngest of five kids, the youngest by almost ten years – it’s part of why I joined the Order.  Mother and Father didn’t think they’d have another mouth to feed at their age; I obliged and left home as soon as the Order would take me.  That happens to a lot of kids who join; they’re a burden to their families.  And that comes in a few different stripes – kids like I was, but fourth and fifth in line to whatever sad little bannorn their daddy’s lord of.  Most of us start as kids who just want something to believe in, who want to help.  Not all, of course – there are the kids who are just born bullies too, the ones who want to lord it over others, who believe might makes right – but I’m not telling you anything you don’t know there.

Father was a cobbler, and a good one – he was a silent kind of man, good at watching the way the world operated.  Mother died when I was three, so I never really knew her.  Got a brother who joined as well – August – he was killed three years after I passed my vigil, serving up in Aeonar.  My sisters and my eldest brother – Bridget, Avis and John, not that it matters – still live in Starkhaven, far as I know.  Last I heard Bridget was about to have another kid.  But then everything started to go to shit up in Starkhaven, and Avis’ letters stopped coming.  

Why the fuck am I telling you all this?  Does it matter?  Not anymore.  Not really.  I just… I guess I’m scared, a bit.  Seems stupid, doesn’t it, ~~but Corypheus has a pl~~      ~~I never thought I’d have to~~                

 ~~It’s this Vessel thing, I don’t~~           ~~I have to, it’s the right thing, I know it’s the right thing but I’m really~~   _[violent scribbling obscures the rest of the text in this part, making it unreadable]._   It’s stupid.  You’re right.  What am I saying, you won’t read this anyway.  And I’ll just be another blip, another moment in your life, a life which will go on long after mine’s done.  I hope you make more of a difference than I feel like I’m making.   ~~I only did what I thought was right, I~~

Been carrying this around in my pack for too long.  Sorry about the stains – sorry about everything.  Maybe it would have been better if we’d never met, but I’m still glad we did.  And I don’t think I need to tell you this, but if I ever get brave enough to send this, and you read it – burn it after.  Please, old man.  

_[the letter is unsigned]_

**III.**

First Enchanter Orsino,

I would appreciate your advice on a schematic for a rune to reduce or eliminate overheating.  If you or anyone of your acquaintance might assist me, I would be grateful.  Please send correspondence with this raven.

I would also ask your advice.  Samson sometimes asks me to recount my time at Redthorne – particularly details which involve yourself.  I have told him all the nuances that I can recall, but I am concerned that I may be forgetting something.  I am aware that this is a side-effect of Tranquility, so I thought it prudent to check with you.  Again, please send correspondence by way of return raven.

Maddox.

* * *

 

“While I understand your concerns, Sister Nightingale, allow me to be frank: I will not be turning my correspondence over to you simply because you cannot break the enchantment barring unintended recipients from opening it. The letters are intended for myself alone, and in my hands they shall stay.”

The woman glares down at Orsino with her arms pointedly not crossed, no matter how much he can tell she wishes otherwise. “My duties require me to monitor all incoming and outgoing information from Skyhold, for the safety of the Inquisition and the Inquisitor herself. This especially includes correspondence with _known_ enemies allied to Corypheus, First Enchanter. The letters will be kept long enough for copies to be made, then returned to you.”

Orsino snorts then, setting his quill aside before it can drip over the parchment too much. “I understand the position this puts you in, spymaster, but Merrill and I have already reached the agreement that my private mail is to be _kept_ private, and she trusts me to provide any pertinent details gleaned to her within an hour of its arrival. Shall I ensure a copy makes its way to you as well?”

Leliana shakes her head, a dark look making its way over her face. He can tell how dearly she wishes to draw the dagger at her waist, though nothing in her body language gives it away – Orsino is simply too used to watching for signs of those supposed-to-be-allies who may wish him harm. He half wishes she’d chosen somewhere a little more public for this confrontation; the library perhaps, or the rookery, if only for his own safety. On the other hand, it would be unwise for Inquisition laymen to see the half-feared, half-revered spymaster belittled by Redthorne’s head representative, ally or not. So his office it is.

“Let me put this simply, then. Nothing you can do to me, nothing you threaten, can be worse than what I have already faced many times before. My position as a researcher on red lyrium is invaluable to the cause. You already know my friends are too loyal to be bribed, and my allies are either members of Redthorne under Inquisition protection or close enough to Merrill to be apprised of the situation, and even if they do not agree with my reasoning they have enough respect for her wishes not to interfere.” _Maker’s Ass, please just leave me be._ But she doesn’t, so Orsino sighs and resists the urge to rub at the ache forming just above his eyes.

Leliana stares at him, stone-faced. If he were a better man, he would leave it at that. He lets a smile curve over his lips, feral and sharp in the manner that always set the Templars to whispering back before Maud and her choices brought his world crumbling down. “Now, is there anything else I can help you with, Nightingale?”

If the spymaster were any more like Pentaghast, he has no doubt a sword would be at his throat by now. But she is who she is, and Leliana turns with a stiff back to leave the room on silent feet. The door closes behind her with a soft click.

Orsino sags in his chair, letting all the battle-ready tension seep out of him in one fell swoop. The letter in front of him beckons, unaffected by the confrontation but for a drop of ink marring one line. Orsino ignores it – the man receiving it has no doubt seen worse.

* * *

 

Dear Maddox,

I’m sure you’ll be satisfied to know the seal you and Dagna worked on in Redthorne works perfectly, though I’m sure it has been used before now for...other things. Dagna made her way directly to Skyhold after her research trip to Hunter Fell, and she assures me she would be pleased to begin work on your problem immediately. However, I can’t in good conscience provide information without any idea what you’re working on [a large black splotch] given our current situation.

I’m at Skyhold, which should be enough information for you and Samson to grasp the situation. We’ve not made any efforts to hide the fact Redthorne is now allied with the Inquisition, putting us in a precarious position in regard to our communication.

Tell Samson if there is something he wishes to know, he should address me directly. Do not stress yourself overly much about it.

Your cousin sends her regards and asks that you “stick to the meal schedule laid out for you to avoid malnourishment”, along with a reminder that plain bread does not constitute a full meal, no matter how much of it you eat. ~~I often wonder why the effects of your Tranquility are so diff~~    ~~that Elise is so careful of you is~~

Take care of yourself and stay safe.

Orsino

* * *

 

Samson,

I am reading your letters. ~~Why~~   ~~You could have told me~~    ~~How could~~    ~~I die a little inside every day knowing you continue to poison yoursel~~

I don’t remember much of my family, only my mother and how she cried and clung to me when they dragged me out of the Alienage. The last sight I had of her sticks with me sometimes, like the blood on her apron from where one Templar broke her nose to get her to let go ~~yet I can’t recall the color of her eyes.~~

No doubt Maddox will show you the letter I sent him. I’m at Skyhold now, with all that encompasses. That’s your warning, I suppose.

 ~~If it wasn’t just passing fancy~~    ~~A moment outside all this war and hate was worth more than I could~~     ~~I can’t~~    ~~If we ever meet on the battlefield~~

Don’t get yourself killed, Raleigh.

Orsino

* * *

 

Orsino looks down at the lines of both letters only half-scribbled over and decides he doesn’t care enough to completely obscure them. To let his runaway feelings bleed over the page to his now-enemies...

_“...like some Maker damned, love-struck fool…  I don’t even know if that’s what this might be – some days I think I’m just lonely.”_

He is still just as alone as before.

* * *

 

 _That’s your warning, I suppose_.

The words sound in his head, echoing and clanging, and without thinking, Samson closes his hand around the letter, balling it up inside his fist.  So.  Orsino has chosen to become an enemy.  He waits, staring at the tiles of the floor of the ancient shrine, trying to wait out the rage that boils within him, the rage which curdles to disappointment in his chest, the taste of bile and shame on the back of his tongue.   _He’s chosen his side, just as you chose yours_ , he tells himself, and frowns, trying to clear his head.  Had he honestly thought that Orsino would choose him?  He shakes his head at himself, smiling slightly and opens his hand, looking at the balled-up parchment.  It sits there, accusatory, and he wonders blandly if he will bother to read it again.  What would be the point?  Distantly, outside in the corridor, he hears raised voices, the guttural chatter of one of the Shadows.  Rather against his better judgement, Samson picks the parchment up, slowly smoothing it out against his knee.  Then he rises, still looking at the letter, and approaches a brazier.

The light in here is dim, all red and flickering, the fires reflecting a thousand times in the outcroppings of red lyrium which have grown up around them.  He frowns again, peering at the scribblings beneath the phrase which had caused him such vexation.  As he deciphers the letters, his lips move a little – slowly he sounds out each word.   _If it wasn’t just a passing fancy_ sends a strange ripple through his guts and chest; _a moment outside all this war and hate was worth more than I could_ makes his mouth open involuntarily for a moment until he realises his pained expression and closes it again, biting his tongue.  He raises his eyes from the parchment, then back again, and the closing statement – _Don’t get yourself killed, Raleigh_ – makes him snort a quick laugh.  He knows he’s dead already, one way or another.

Carefully, he folds the letter in half, then in half again.  For a moment, he pauses, as if weighing the letter, then without further consideration, he casts it into the fire.  As he stands there, staring at the parchment as it curls and blackens, the door to the antechamber in which he stands swings open.

“General,” pants a woman, her voice thick, rasping.  She blinks bright red eyes at him, the crystalline talons on her right hand held awkwardly against her chest as if she is in pain, her left hand still on the door.  “An Inquisition forward party has been sighted.  Five to seven wheels southeast, moving fast.  They know we’re here.”

 _Piss on it_ , Samson thinks, even as he nods to the woman.  “Thank you, Scout.  Dispatch the information to the Captains.  They have their orders.”

“Yes, General,” the scout gurgles, and leaves, closing the door behind her.  Samson draws a deep breath, takes one more look at the charred shred of what was the letter, and goes to find Maddox.

He finds the Tranquil at work, fashioning a new hilt.  He is filthy with sweat and soot, the hammer blows falling rhythmically against the piece of white hot metal Maddox holds in his long tongs.  As Samson watches, he turns, plunging the piece into the barrel of water at his side to temper it.  

As he turns back to the anvil, Maddox catches sight of him.  “General Samson,” he says, “This is for Certainty.  It should alleviate…”

“We have to go,” Samson mutters, “It’s the Inquisition.  They’ll be here in an hour, give or take.”

Maddox says nothing for what seems a long time.  Just as Samson is about to take him by the elbow, to ask him if he’s heard, Maddox shakes his head.  “No,” he says, his voice firm, “I will not leave my work.  Give me leave to stay.  I will conceal as much as I can.  I will not allow the diagrams to fall into the…”

“Mads, you _have_ to come with me.  You have to come now.  There’s…”

“Samson,” Maddox cuts him off, and Samson is so shocked by the steel in his tone that he stops talking, his hand halfway up, ready to catch hold of Maddox’s robes and drag him away.  “Samson,” Maddox says again, softer this time, “Go.  You have everything you need now.  I am a cog in the machine; you are the fuel which keeps it running.  I will delay them.  I can do it, but you must give me leave to stay.  You are my General.”

Wordlessly, Samson shakes his head, staring at Maddox.  But as he looks at the Tranquil, standing there awaiting a response, Samson has to acknowledge the sense in his words.  Finally, he nods and tells the man, “Fine.  Do what you can to delay them.”  He takes a deep breath and tells Maddox, “Get away if you can.  But don’t let them take you alive if it comes to that.”

He simply nods once, then tells Samson, “Fine.  I have made preparations for this.  Serve our master well, Raleigh.”

Curtly, Samson nods.  He doesn’t trust himself to speak further, so instead settles for one final look at Maddox before turning to stride away.

* * *

 

It takes everything Orsino has not to run ahead of the party. From the way Merrill has gone quiet, he knows she feels the same. Cullen follows them as more and more Inquisition soldiers split off, securing the captives which the Inquisitor had insisted on taking even before this trip began. The Commander’s silence is a sullen thing, exacerbated by Orsino’s presence, he knows. He believes Orsino’s insistence on coming to this place is suspect; perhaps even that he is collaborating with Samson and Corypheus by extension, taking advantage of the Inquisitor’s apparent naïveté to further his own ends. The thought makes Orsino want to laugh in the man’s face.

He’s long since chosen a side.

They reach yet another room filled floor to ceiling with columns of red lyrium. Merrill walks a little ahead of him, pulling Orsino out of his observations when she shouts, “Maddox!” and breaks into a run.

Orsino follows faster than before, heart clenching at the sight of the Tranquil slumped against a statue of Dumat.

“Hello, Merrill.” Orsino’s eyebrows raise of their own accord. Maddox is not known for leaving titles to the wayside. The man’s gaze skips over Cullen, landing on Orsino and something flashes through his eyes too quick to read. “Orsino. You came for Samson.”

“Yes, but-” Merrill pauses, reaching to touch his hand. “You look sick. Let me-”

“Why are you here?” Maddox asks, still looking directly at Orsino, “You are a researcher, not a soldier.  What is your purpose here?”  He cocks his head, his expression grave.  As he speaks, Orsino notes the blood on his teeth, the rapid-fire stutter of the pulse in his neck, though Maddox does not betray any overt sign of pain.

Dread coils in the pit of Orsino’s stomach.

“Oh, Orsino insisted on being here, in case you or Samson- Nevermind, what happened? Did someone poison you?” Before anyone can react, Merrill digs at the wound on her arm to reopen it, pressing a bloody palm to Maddox’s neck. “Oh. Oh no, I can’t- Orsino, come help me. I don’t have enough left to…” Orsino obeys without question, dropping to his knees on the Tranquil’s other side. He ignores the choking noise Cullen makes when Merrill hands him her knife and he cuts open his palm without pausing.

“It will not matter,” Maddox tells them softly.  His voice is strained, and when Orsino looks up, sharply, he cannot help but note the hectic splashes of colour on the Tranquil’s cheeks, the way in which his breath heaves out of his chest.  “I have eaten them, all my plans.  I have… have been using ink laced with… with poison…”

“Which poison?” Merrill asks sharply, “What is…”

“We’re wasting time,” Orsino hears Cullen mutter, the restless shift of his feet on the stone.  Merrill ignores him completely, continuing to stare at Maddox, who gazes dully back at her.  

As Orsino watches, the blood welling in his own palm, magic singing in his temples, Maddox turns to look at him.  “He is gone,” Maddox tells him, “He has everything he needs.  General Samson’s… his change is almost complete, and you… you would not…”

Orsino isn’t sure whether to curse or sob. _Nothing, we came here for nothing_. And a good man is dying in front of him for it. He tries not to think of what Maddox is implying.

 _“I mean it, O_ – _always a place for talent like yours.”_ Samson had asked, without asking. Orsino lets the blood running over his hand slow, lets the hand drop down until he can clasp one of the Tranquil’s own. It’s already cooling. Merrill sees him do it, and he notices the tears welling up in her eyes as she finally draws back.

“I’m sorry that it has come to this,” Orsino says, and stops. He meets Maddox’s half-closed eyes, waiting on him with the patience of the dying, but finds there is nothing more he can say. Not to this man.

“Your apology is not for me,” Maddox tells him, and his eyelids flutter a little.  A tiny smile graces his lips and he squeezes Orsino’s hand, very briefly.  “Tell Elise I said hello,” he murmurs, and then his eyes close and a long, harsh breath escapes him.  The hand in Orsino’s tenses again, then relaxes, and Maddox is gone.

“Fuck,” Orsino murmurs, and stoutly refuses to let himself crumble.

Merrill insists on giving Maddox a funeral, as well as the other Red Templars the Inquisition was forced to kill instead of capture.

Cullen protests, of course. “Inquisitor, the strain on resources in this area is already-” he stops when he sees the way Merrill’s hands have gone white around her staff. Her face is strained, too pale in contrast to the green of her vallaslin. Orsino steps in before she erupts – he’s never seen Merrill snap before and has no desire to see it now – setting a hand on her shoulder.

“She’s not asking for a full Andrastian ceremony, Commander. Simply a pyre and someone to say a few words. Surely that can’t be too much for the mighty Inquisition?”

Cullen glares at him for a moment, but casts his eyes to Merrill when she speaks again.

“Maddox was my friend, Cullen. I’ll do it the Dalish way if I have to, but I can’t leave him to rot here. The others deserve some form of farewell, too.”

Orsino sees the second the man’s resolve gives way. “Very well, Inquisitor, it will be done.” He bows slightly, then turns away with a stiffness in his walk that wasn’t there a moment ago.

Orsino is startled when Merrill turns to him, wrapping her arms just under his shoulders and clutching at him for support. She doesn’t seem to mind the soldiers milling around them or the fact that everyone is witness to this moment of weakness. Only when her breath turns to hitching gasps does Orsino return the embrace, dropping his cheek on top of her head.

Neither of them say anything, and if Merrill’s hair grows damper the longer they stand there, she will never speak of it.

* * *

It’s pretty here, all overgrown and wild, the way the water reflects the sunlight, Samson thinks, as he withdraws Certainty from the chest of one of the fallen guardians.  From somewhere behind him, a Behemoth grunts, and he hears the gouting blare of flame from the fist of the other, off to his left.  The battle  – such as it was  – is dying, the dappled sunlight falling on the blood and bodies of the elves, shining like jewels on the surface of the water.  As he turns to face them, Samson’s heart swells in his chest at the sight of them, and the words are on his lips before he even knows it.  Approaching the group of three, their bodies towering hulks of muscle, red lyrium glistening in the light, jutting from their skin, he tells them, “You tough bastards.  A day’s march, hours of fighting, and still fierce as dragons.”  He grins, full of pride as his men stare blankly back at him, their chests heaving, the restless motions of their heads, hungry glances at the corpses, at the trees.  “The Chantry never knew what it was throwing away.”

“Samson!  Ser  – watch out!” comes the cry, but even as the words reach his ears, Samson is turning.  It seems to take an age, and for all that he feels panic rise in his chest  – this wasn’t meant to happen, not like this  – there is a strange resignation which touches him with icy fingers as well.  Still, his expression does not change as he turns to face the newcomers, and he tells them, “Inquisitor.  You and those elf-things just…”

The words die on his lips.  Maker’s Balls, the Inquisitor  – it’s that little elf girl from Redthorne.  She strides toward him, staff already out, her green eyes ablaze.  He sneers at her, and states, “You’ve hunted us halfway across Thedas.  Shoulda known you’d follow us into this hole.”

“Samson,” she says quietly, and for a moment he sees something flicker over her features.  They work strangely, some emotion he cannot place  – then all of a sudden he realises what it is.  Sympathy.   _ She thinks she’s gonna win _ , he thinks incredulously, and his smile is back. Then she straightens her spine and tells him, her voice soft, lilting, which in no way softens the edges of her words, “Maddox is dead.”

It hits him in the chest.  That is all there is in the world, just those three words,  _ Maddox is dead _ , nothing more.  Then Samson rallies, and the snarl is back.  “If he is, it was you lot that killed him,” he tells her, even as a voice in his head says  _ liar, liar it was you, he trusted you and you killed him, you let him die _ .  “If Maddox is dead, he died one of the faithful.  He died one of us.”

The hate and rage pours into him, every bit as fresh and biting as the near-constant pain of the armour, a pain which has been present for such a long time that he barely even feels it any more.  “Corypheus chose me twice.  Once as a general, and again as his Vessel.  It’ll be me that raises him up, me that helps him scour the world of this mess.   _ Your _ mess.  After I take the wisdom in the well to him, he’ll have what he needs to finally become the god he is.”

Merrill looks at him pleadingly, and shakes her head.  “You can’t believe that.  But you do, don’t you?  Oh, Samson  – what makes you think that after he gets what he wants, that he’ll have any use for you?”

He smiles at her and shakes his head.  “You don’t get it, do you?  After he gets what he wants, I’ll have what I want too.”   _ Really _ ? that traitorous little voice in the back of his head asks, and for an instant he is back at the gates of Redthorne, the scent of Orsino’s glove in his nose with the smell of early snow, the warm of real contact and potential in his hand.  But then it is gone, and he asks her, “So, Inquisitor.  How’s this going to go?”

Merrill takes a deep breath, and withdraws something from her pocket  – a small, circular object, which shines strangely, glistening with a reddish gleam.  She looks at him sadly, and then, without speaking, touches the hand which glows with the sickly green light of the Anchor to the object.  

The world drops out from under him, and he gasps and stumbles.  That feeling of freefall  – oh Maker, no, no, no, not this, not now, not here.  It is like being back on the docks, it is like the worst of the dust dreams, but a hundred, a thousand times worse.  He stumbles again, falling to his knees, every muscle shuddering, his guts heaving and pitching.  “What did you do?   _ What did you do _ ?” he groans, feeling the absence of the lyrium as a physical lack, and he gasps again, seeing that the red in his armour has all died.  “My armour,” he moans, rising again, touching the great crystal in his chestplate, “the lyrium!  I can’t… I  _ need  _ it!”   
“Samson,” a tall, grey-haired elf steps forwards, and the tone of voice is so familiar, Samson’s breath catches in his lungs.  Orsino.  After all these years, all this time.  For a long time, they only stare at each other, and Samson feels his resolve begin to crumble under that gaze.  But his sword is not called Certainty for nothing, and as he tightens his grip on the pommel, he breaks his gaze away from Orsino and tells his men, “Kill them all.”


	4. Chapter 4

The battle doesn’t last long. 

Orsino stands over Samson and the three Templars who accompanied him, all but the biggest and most corrupted bound and unconscious. They had to kill the last Horror when he wouldn’t stay down even under a sleep spell and nearly managed to gut Pentaghast when she tried to restrain him. 

Samson is pale, covered in blood and sweat that he’s not sure came from the man carving his way through the Temple, or from these last few minutes after losing the power of his armor. On close inspection the points of red lyrium sticking out of Samson’s chest and arms are a dull, murky red but not inert, still feeding on the man’s life force as the Blight does. Orsino fights to stand still, resisting the urge to drop to his knees and check Samson’s pulse again.  _ How is he even still alive? _

“Orsino?” Merrill calls, “we need to catch up to Morrigan before she reaches the Well! Are you coming?”

Orsino swallows around the ache in his throat and shakes his head. “No, I...think I will help supervise the transportation of our captives. You have enough mages at your back, I trust,” he says gesturing to the path where Solas, Dorian, and Sera wait next to the Seeker who shifts with unconcealed impatience. 

Merrill nods slowly, casting a glance between Orsino and Samson’s prone form. “All right, I understand. Stay safe!” She turns to the battalion of warriors and a medic following them for just this purpose. “Please see to the captives and get them out of the Temple. We’ll be fine!” the Dalish woman orders, waving off any protests to the contrary. Orsino watches as she disappears into the foliage, the other companions following behind. 

He’s forced to stand back as the Inquisition agents check the bindings and start hauling the Red Templars out, careful even fully-clad in armor to never let the lyrium touch them. It takes five men to even lift the Templar Knight well on his way to becoming a Horror, causing Orsino to wonder just how much of the man’s body is stone and how very little is flesh. 

His mind shies away from the thought but Orsino forces it to keep its course, if only not to dwell on the General hanging limp between two soldiers. He and Merrill have had several deep discussions over the last months after she confirmed that, indeed, she did know a way to draw the Blight out of objects, and in practice lyrium shouldn’t be much different. Dagna thinks she may be able to remove the lyrium after it’s cleansed, but the entire thing is up in the air, the dwarf reluctant to even try on the Red Templars already captured until she was sure her runework would hold strong. Now, with General Samson captured and his armor neutralized...they may have a chance. The Horrors and Shadows would be the most difficult – the people most changed by the lyrium would have the least chance of surviving the process – but still there was some hope. 

And Samson. How the man flinched when Orsino called his name, red eyes filled with devastation before he pulled the rage over it like a shroud… Orsino wonders what would have happened if he’d opened his mouth, if he didn’t freeze up upon seeing the man and actually said the words trapped in his heart.  _ “Samson, please…” _

In the distance behind them, a dragon roars. Orsino curses, immediately casting a barrier over as many people as he can encompass. To their credit, the soldiers don’t freeze, only picking up the pace when Orsino bellows, “MOVE!” at them from behind. 

They escape into the Arbor Wilds.

* * *

 

Dark, the rattle of wheels on a rough road.  The sound of marching, and then he sleeps again.

 

The ache pulls him up, up into conscious thought, and this time he sees a brilliant night sky, the stars a white blaze above him.  It’s cold, and his arms are bound tight behind him.   _ Mads _ , he thinks, and then sleeps again.

 

When at last he wakes, it is to a cell cut from stone.  He is kneeling, a filthy straw pallet under him, his arms in shackles which are anchored against the wall behind him.  He has been divested of his armour, dressed instead in a simple cotton shirt and brown trousers.  His feet are bare.  When he shifts, the chains clank against the wall, and he squeezes his eyes shut, listening.  Maker, everything hurts.  The cells are silent apart from the howl of the wind, but from a distance, he can hear a great crowd.  It seems to be coming from above where he is.  He opens his eyes, still listening hard, and gasps as the world greys out for a moment.  Fists clenched, he takes a deep breath, trying to still the racing of his heart.  Every muscle aches, though it is his knees and his back which are the worst.  No.  Not the worst.  The worst is the want, naked, raw.  It’s in his head, in his chest and hands  – his very teeth seem to want the red.  Even the thought of it is enough to make him groan into the silence, and he hangs his head briefly, before looking up sharply at the sound of the door somewhere above him opening.  

 

The guards who came to open his cell and drag him into the light are obviously leery of touching him, and the thought brings a ghost of a smile to his lips.  Into the Great Hall they bring him, and as the crowd assembled boo and hiss and spit at him, he smiles again, a grim twist of the mouth.  As he is pulled forward, his gaze is taken for a moment with the little elven Inquisitor, who sits perched like a bird on the edge of the modest throne.  And then as he is shuffled forward down the aisle amongst those crowded together to witness his judgement, his smile dies when he sees the other figure, standing next to the Inquisitor.

 

Cullen.  That fucking traitor.  Samson stares at the man, Maker, the gall of him, standing up there like his shit doesn’t stink.  He feels his ire like a stone in his chest, his disgust plain on his face as Cullen addresses the Inquisitor in a voice which rings around the hall, silencing the crowd: “Forgive me, Inquisitor.  For personal interest, I have relieved Josephine.  As you might expect.”

The Inquisitor only nods, and he sees how tightly her fingers are intertwined.  “Knight-Templar Samson,” Cullen intones, as the guards give him a final shove in the back, “General to Corypheus, traitor to the Order.  The blood on his hands cannot be measured.”

 

 _Give me a sodding break,_ Samson thinks scornfully, **_I’m_** _the traitor?  I’m not the one who up and fucked off leaving Kirkwall still half broken,_ ** _Commander_** _._ “His head is too valuable to take,” Cullen tells the Inquisitor, “Kirkwall, Orlais; many would see him suffer.  I can’t say I’m not one of them.”

_ Suck my cock _ , Samson almost growls, but has to settle instead for glaring at Cullen, who pointedly doesn’t look at him.  So instead, Samson looks at the Inquisitor, raising his chin in order to see her better.  She stares directly at him for a long moment, then gets up off her throne.  

 

In five quick paces, she is standing an arm’s reach away.  And it is gratifying to see how the Inquisition soldiers scramble to protect this little elf from him  – him with his hands tied before himself, him three days sick from lack of lyrium.  She cocks her head, watching him closely, then says, “Samson?  You know how big this is, don’t you?  You know what people want me to do?”  The Inquisitor waits, but when he doesn’t say anything, she sighs.  “This is bigger than us, bigger than all of us.  I can’t, I won’t take it lightly.”  She purses her lips, scrunching them to the side, her large eyes luminous in the candlelit hush of the hall.

 

Finally, he can hold his tongue no longer.  “The red’ll take your vengeance.  You know what it does.  Corypheus only postponed it.”  

Cullen scoffs, and Samson glares at him again briefly as he says incredulously, “Are you still loyal to that thing?  He poisoned the Order, used them to kill thousands!”

“As if we hadn’t already!” Samson sneers, meeting Cullen’s scorn with his own, the deep, festering rage within him beginning to blare.  “As if before this we were a bunch of choirboys, singing the praises of Andraste alongside our mage brethren?  Don’t be so fucking  _ blind _ , Commander.  The Order’s always been poisoned  – but poisoned by the Chantry,  _ used _ by it!  How many of us were left to rot, like I was, after the Chantry burned away our minds?”  He tosses the hair out of his face and shakes his head, “Piss on it.  I followed him so we could die at our best.  Yeah, it was the same lie as the Chantry told us, and our Prophet wasn’t as pretty.  But at least he was honest.” He snorts and shakes his head again, very aware of the weight of all the eyes upon him.  

 

“But Samson,” the Inquisitor says, her voice soft, almost treacherous in its kindness, “We found your people.  They believed in  _ you _ , not Corypheus. They believed what you told them.”

“So?” he asks her. “What another man believes isn’t your business, Inquisitor.”

A smile flickers across her face, and she stands a little straighter.  Then she licks her lip, bites it, and her eyes move quickly upward, as if she is looking for something on the balcony or the eaves of the building.  Then, the Inquisitor sighs.  “You’re right.  It’s not.  The Chantry’s been fooling people for centuries, taking things which don’t belong to them.  But it’s not just the Templars  – you see that, don’t you?  And I don’t see how Corypheus would be any better than them, not at all.  He’s… well.  Isn’t that the whole idea behind breaking something?  That you have something to fix it with that will make it better?”  She pauses, looking at the floor briefly, and he finds himself lost for words.  Slowly, she lifts her gaze and says, “And Maddox.  He was so loyal to you that he took his own life.  They all did, all the people that took red lyrium  – they all knew that they were probably giving up their lives as they knew them  – and for you.  For your cause.  I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but that was what happened.  Your men, your friend, everyone around you.  How should I judge you, when you’ve let so many die?”

 

Samson swallows, takes a deep breath, and looks at her levelly.  “They were always going to die.  I knew what Corypheus was doing.  So yes, I fed them hope instead of despair.  Made them think their pain served a purpose.  Just like the Chantry does.”  He turns his gaze and stares at Cullen as he asks, “Right, Commander?”

 

Cullen’s expression is stony.  Eventually, Samson drops his eyes and mutters, “It ended as well as anything else I’ve done.”  He shudders, feeling a sudden chill, and tells them, “Corypheus would kill me on sight.  I’ll tell you what you want.  Everything I cared about is destroyed.”  

“Oh, I don’t know,” the Inquisitor sighs, and she looks up again.  Samson frowns at her, confused, then snorts quietly.   _ She was at Redthorne, _ part of his mind whispers, even as he gives it up as a bad joke.  _ Maybe she…  _ But that’s ridiculous.  Orsino may not have even survived, and even if he had, there’s no way he’d want anything to do with him now.  He’s broken.  He’s lost.  He shrugs and says, “I do.  Do what you want with me.  I’m dead anyway.”

* * *

 

Orsino flinches when Merrill meets his eyes the second time, can only be grateful the Templar on trial does not attempt to follow her gaze to the balcony where he stands, crowded in by servants, soldiers, and lower-tier nobles who could find no place on the floor. Merrill invited him to stand beside her in this, but… he couldn’t, both as an ally to the Inquisition who would be seen as grossly overstepping his place, and as a man who was about to watch the person he...feels some sort of affection for be put on trial.

He knows the outcome already, of course. It was decided long before they walked into the Arbor Wilds, perhaps back in the dungeons when they witnessed the spymaster questioning Templar after Red Templar. They snarled and howled and declared their undying loyalty to General Samson’s cause. Several attempted to kill themselves then and there; only unsuccessful by way of Merrill’s blood magic control and a healer’s intervention. Merrill wrote down her plan, aided by Dagna and Orsino both, and presented it to the advisors. Protests ran rampant, Cullen’s voice the loudest of them, before the Inquisitor put her foot down. 

“You gave me this job, and  _ you’re  _ the ones that decided I have a right to judge people without input from a council. If you still think I was handed some sort of ‘divine’ right, then by the Dread Wolf, you are going to  _ listen _ to me!” The silence that followed was more telling than the most enthusiastic agreement. 

Orsino can’t see Samson’s expression from this angle, too far back to do more than watch the defeated slump of the man’s shoulders and how his head bows lower than he’s ever seen it before. It hurts to see the man so broken.  _ Everything I care about is destroyed… _ That hurts too, in a much different way, paving room for that niggling doubt in Orsino’s heart that he ever meant anything to the man at all. He stifles the feeling as much as he can, determined to focus on the trial.

Merrill draws herself up and the room goes quiet enough one can hear the neighing of horses through the open hall doors. “There’s always a chance, you know, to make things better. I saw people try so many times in Kirkwall and again in Redthorne. Sometimes they even succeeded. So I’m going to give you a chance at it, too. I mean, an opportunity I don’t think you ever really had in Kirkwall.” And his breath catches when she smiles, because Orsino may not be a believer in the Maker or any elven god, but he could swear he catches the hint of something more than mortal in that expression. “We know now how to purge red lyrium and drain it of the Blight. The process works on minerals and metal, on all the objects we’ve tried so far, but it’s never been attempted on a living being. You’re going to be the first trial. And when we finish and you’re healed, we’re going to do it for the rest of your people too. So that they can live.” 

Murmurs break out amongst the crowd, quickly growing in volume until it threatens to drown out the rest of Merrill’s words, but she speaks over them. “You’ll spend your lives in service to the Inquisition. Cullen will be your handler, unless someone else becomes better suited to the position.”

The crowd starts to roar – excitement, protest – and the guards next to Samson all start forward in alarm when Merrill steps into the Templar’s space, leaning down to whisper something no one can hear with a small hand against the man’s cheek. She pulls away, still smiling, and returns to her throne. If Samson says anything in response, Orsino can’t hear it over the people or the pounding of his heart.

_ It is done. _

* * *

 

The noise of the crowd rings still in his ears  – but not louder than those words.   _ I know you can do it, _ the Inquisitor had whispered, one hand against his cheek,  _ and I know Cullen’s not the one who’ll help the most.  Be strong! _ And then she’d stepped away from him, back toward the dais, only smiling at Samson’s confused expression.  Then the guards had taken his arms, begun to drag him away.  “Get off me,” he’d snarled, shrugging them off to turn and make his way back down the aisle as the crowd had howled around him.

 

Samson shivers, rubbing at his wrists absent-mindedly.  That had been hours ago now, and down here in the dark, the silence reigns everywhere except in his head.  What had she meant?  Bloody right Cullen wouldn’t help, but who was the Inquisitor talking about?   _It’s him_ , he thinks, _it’s him, he survived, it’s Orsino_ – but even as he thinks this, even as hope rises in his chest, he struggles to crush it.   _Don’t be a bloody fool,_ Samson tells himself sternly, _you’re stuck with Rutherford, so just…_

A harsh metallic clang from the top of the stairs as the door opens, and Samson looks up sharply.  The motion sends pain shooting all through his back and he grimaces, trying to smother the expression of pain on his face.  There are footfalls coming down the stairs toward him, several by the sound of things, and he struggles to his feet, leaning on the wall for support.  Each breath feels laboured with the effort of simply rising to his feet.  Two guards come into view.  As one begins unlocking the cell door, the other draws his short sword and tells him, “Go to the back wall.”

 

Slowly, Samson does as he’s been bidden.  He tries to affect an air of nonchalance, but the truth of it is, he cannot move any faster.  Each motion of his hips sends pain blaring up his back again, all through his chest, which feels weak, tight.  The cell door swings open, and both guards enter, the one with the sword eyeing him cautiously, the other taking Samson’s hands and binding them together at the wrists once more.  “Come on, boys,” Samson wheezes as he watches the rope go around his wrists, the knots which the guard is tying into them, “What do you think I’m gonna do, huh?  I’m an agent of the Inquisition now, can’t we all..?”

“Shut your mouth,” the sword-bearer tells him sharply, and Samson snorts and shrugs.  

“And here was me thinking you Inquisition types had no spine,” he smirks into the man’s face, “Though I was under the impression your Inquisitor wanted a caged bird that sang, not one that shut it’s mouth at the first git who waved a sword at them.  I mean…”

“Samson,” comes a voice from the cell door, and he looks up, over the guard's shoulder.  The guards step back and salute at the sound of that voice, and Samson rolls his eyes. 

“Got you jumping, doesn’t he, boys?  Look at these two,” he says, addressing Cullen, “Pride of the Inquisition, no doubt?  Hardly look like they could march half a day without falling over,” he says scornfully, and smothers a cough.

“That will be all,” Cullen tells the guards, who nod and make their way to the front of the cell as Cullen eyes Samson cautiously.  He’s aged quite dramatically, Samson sees, and then laughs a little.   _ He always was a pretty thing,  _ he thinks.  _ Nice to know even the lookers top out eventually. _  He raises an eyebrow at Cullen, who glares at him.  “What?” the Commander asks, and Samson shrugs.

“Just remembering old times,” he leers, then has to turn his head aside and cough.  It’s wet, and he spits a globule of blood and phlegm onto the stone floor.  Suddenly, he feels lightheaded, and before he can catch himself or lean against the wall for support, he staggers forward, landing hard on his knees, bringing his bound hands up to protect his face, slamming his elbows into the stone floor.  

 

“Samson,” Cullen says. “Do you..?”

“Piss off,” Samson groans, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain in his chest.  “Need the red.  Can’t… can’t breathe.”

“Just take it slowly,” Cullen tells him. “You can get through this.”

“Fuck you,” Samson wheezes, then hacks another globule up.  He groans again, not feeling the way that his fingers are digging bloody crescents into his palms, only the ache in his lungs and his head. “Why don’t you fuck off?  You bloody bastard. You left us all… you left…” He coughs again and again, loud and rasping, his throat feeling on fire, the taste of blood on the back of his tongue.

 

Cullen is silent.  Eventually, the storm passes, and Samson is able to sit up.  He rises slowly onto his haunches, noting coldly the way that Cullen has remained standing.  He looks pale, terribly angry, and Samson grins.  “Don’t like that, do you?” he rasps, raising his bound hands to wipe at his mouth. “Traitor to the Order, you called me.  Takes one to know one, I say.”

Cullen’s mouth works, and Samson notes with some satisfaction the way his nostrils flare quickly.  Then he takes a deep breath and says calmly, “The Inquisitor mentioned treatment, for you and for the surviving Red Templars.  She has been working with a small team to bring this about.  If it were up to me, I would have you all summarily executed  – so I would be thanking the Maker for the Inquisitor’s bleeding heart, if I were you.”  He leans down, studying Samson’s face.  “However, she and her team only need you alive, so that the lyrium might be drawn out of you.  Don’t think I will not stoop to finding another way to punish you for your crimes.”

Samson snorts laughter, ignoring the ache which is everywhere now.  Above them, the door to the cells opens and closes again, and he hears a lighter footstep begin to descend the stairs.  But this moment is too perfect to concern himself with what may be coming next, and so he grins at Cullen and tells him, “As if you had the balls.  But go on then, do what you want.  As if you could do anything worse to me than what you’ve already done.  You  _ left  _ us, Cullen.  You left us all to go fucking about here, as soon as that Seeker bitch waved a bit of paper at you.  You swore an oath to the Order, for your life.  Good to know your word comes so cheap.”  

The taste of blood is everywhere in his mouth now, but he persists, part of him grimly delighted at the way Cullen’s eyes have grown wide, the way in which his jaw is working.  Maker, the man is easy to bait.  He shrugs. “But if you did try it, I’ll bet the little elf sittin’ on the throne up there would be pretty pissed if I showed up at her test all bloodied.  If I told her that her precious Commander had been rough with his charge.”  He smirks into Cullen’s face. “Go on.  I fucking dare you.”

 

Cullen moves so fast that Samson doesn’t have time to draw breath.  In an instant, he is being hauled roughly to his feet, being slammed up against the stone cell wall, all the remaining breath leaving his lungs in a loud  _ wuff _ .  He can feel Cullen’s fists in his flesh, the knuckles hard against his chest where he grips the worn cotton of the shirt.  Pain, sharp and bright, lances through his head where it hits the stone wall, and Cullen’s face fills his vision, doubling for a moment before snapping back.  Those golden eyes bore into his, and in spite of the pain, Samson smirks.  Cullen sneers, shakes his head a little, and says softly, “What makes you think anyone cares about anything you do now?  Your time is done, Samson.”  He smiles slightly, and the smile only serves to emphasise the utter disdain in his eyes.  Samson feels his smirk waver as the pain threatens to overtake him again, and then there is a faint  _ harrumph _ from behind Cullen.

* * *

 

Orsino passes into the cell block just in time to hear Samson’s taunt – his tone the most acerbic thing he’s ever heard pass the man’s lips – and he pauses as the actual meaning of the words sink in.  _ What- _

There’s a shuffle and a sharp thump that can only be flesh hitting stone. Orsino quickens his steps until he reaches the cell, heart speeding at the sight of the Commander pressing Samson to the wall.  Neither man notices his presence for a moment and he’s just close enough to hear Cullen’s sharp retort, his voice full of vitriol unlike anything Orsino knows of him, but it is the man’s question that draws a sharp, harsh sound out of his own throat before he can stop it. 

The Commander draws back instantly, practically springing away as Samson slumps against the wall.  _ Feeling caught out, are we? You shouldn’t even be touching him, _ he thinks, but doesn’t say. Instead: “The Inquisitor has made it explicitly clear exactly how much she cares about Samson’s well being and his continued cooperation, Commander Rutherford. Or were you not reading the same outline I was last month?” Orsino’s voice is icy enough that he could swear the temperature of their surroundings drops by several degrees. “What would she say if a report on the maltreatment of an Inquisition asset lands on her desk, less than a day after the assignment is handed to you? How would it reflect on her judgement if a new handler for the Red Templars needs to be found so soon?” He tilts his head, watching that red flush of anger, so familiar from their days at the Gallows, creep up Cullen’s neck. 

“You have no right to-”

“I have every right,” Orsino cuts him off, letting his disdain for the man drip through his tone. “Merrill has duties that often take her into the field, and while she’s gone,  _ I _ am the head of this project. If I judge you unfit for this massive undertaking as a result of your inability to control your temper and be a Maker-damned professional when interacting with Samson or his men, then you will be relieved of the position. Am I clear?” 

There was once a time when talking to this man in such a manner would have seen him whipped, or even branded in those last few years. Orsino relishes in the freedom of the changed dynamic for only a moment, watching Cullen’s hand clench and release on the pommel of his sword before he visibly fights for a stoicism that never quite manages to smother the anger burning in his eyes. “Crystal,” Cullen bites out, turning a bit back toward Samson without taking an eye off Orsino. “Samson’s needed in the Undercroft, I’m meant to be taking him.” The escape attempt is about as subtle as a bag of bricks tossed over Skyhold’s battlements, but Orsino can’t say anything before Samson tries to straighten from his slump, groans, and falls to his knees clutching at his head with bound hands. 

“Don’t!” Orsino snaps when the Commander steps toward the man. “You’ve done enough damage, get out. Send one of the guards for a healer.” 

Cullen straightens, mulishness taking over his body language. “You should not be left alone with him.”   
“What do you think he can do to me in this state?” Orsino gestures at the man, purposefully ignoring the meaning of the words that hold more suspicion than concern. “Go, Commander. The sooner Samson is healthy enough to move, the sooner we can begin.” 

It feels like forever before Cullen comes to a decision, nodding stiffly before he turns to stride out of the cell and on, up the stairs where the guards now stand. Orsino waits him out, listens for the drag and slam of the door above before he darts forward, falling to knees that crack in protest on hitting the cold floor. He reaches out before he can think better of it, wrapping a gloved hand over one of the man’s bare wrists. 

“R- Samson. Tell me what’s wrong.”

* * *

 

Everything is grey, swimming before his eyes as Cullen releases him.  Samson manages to slump against the wall, and oh Void, he must be dreaming, because there’s Orsino.  He fights the urge to laugh, still struggling to hold himself upright, dimly aware of words and phrases reaching out across the cold air – _maltreatment of an Inquisition agent;_ ** _I_** _am the head of the project; crystal._ His head snaps up at that – he was not even aware that it was lolling – and he immediately searches for any visual suggestion that there might be even a sliver of the red here.  Fuck it, he’d settle for blue at this point.  His whole body seems on fire, the song is there, Maker, it’s so close, but also very distant, and it is with no surprise at all that Samson realises he’s about to lose consciousness.  He opens his mouth, about to ask these two gits to stop yammering so that he can at least hear the song of it, but as he tries to straighten up against the wall, a wave of pain hits him hard.  His vision doubles, and before he knows it, he’s fallen to his knees, and the world vanishes for a while.

 

_ Tell me what’s wrong _ .

 

That voice.  That touch on his wrist, just below where the roughness of the rope passes.  It must be a dream, because that is Orsino’s voice, that is his hand on Samson’s wrist, soft, comforting.  And because this is a dream, Samson knows it doesn’t much matter what he says, so he tells the truth.  “Everything,” he mumbles. “Everything’s wrong.  Help me, please, ‘Sino.  Can’t do it on my own.”  He rolls his forehead over the cool of the stones on the floor, feels the hand on his wrist move slightly, fingers begin to pick at the rope around his wrist.  Funny how your mind keeps some details of the waking world like that.  “I’m sorry.  Sorry for everything; sorry to drag you into this mess again.  Just… I just… I wanted you to be here so much, and I dunno what this is, what it might have been.  But I’ve fucked it, I’ve fucked it all up.  Maker, I’m so… I’m so sorry, I only wanted to help, and I… but...”  Then, in this dream, this dream which seems so real, the tears come, hot and fast, great raking sobs that seem to come from some strange wellspring deep inside him.  “‘Sino,” he sobs, groping desperately for a hand he doubts is there, grateful beyond measure when his hand is clasped in a strong, warm grip, “‘Sino, I’m sorry.”

And then, it is all too much, and the pain becomes huge  – unconsciousness finally takes him.

* * *

 

“Concussion,” Maxwell says, gently rolling the man onto his side as his hands glow blue. He tucks Samson’s knee up so the man can’t accidentally roll back again and choke if he happens to vomit. Enchanter Trevelyan only has two years of official spirit healing study with Anders under his belt, unable to find a qualified teacher before Ostwick fell, but this still makes him more reliable for diagnosing ailments than half the herbalists in Skyhold. Commander Rutherford apparently sent for Adan, but it was that spirit boy –  _ what is his name...Cole? _ – that pulled Maxwell from the infirmary to the dungeons. The enchanter’s presence managed to quell Orsino’s panic when Samson passed out on the floor, limp and bleeding from the mouth. 

“Concussion? From hitting the wall?” Orsino hisses, anger welling up all over again. Oh, how he longs to find the Commander in some dark corner of the hold very, very soon. 

“Not just that,” the other mage says, running his hands over Samson’s too-pale forehead. “He’s been banged around, yeah, but the brain swelling is probably a combination of that along with the withdrawal symptoms and lack of sleep. He’s  _ exhausted _ , his body has no resources left to draw on but the red lyrium, and even that’s reached the stage where the growths are taking more than they’re giving back. I’d recommend a dose of lyrium, if only for the energy-”

“You know we can’t do that,” Orsino snaps. Too sharp, too hostile to a man he trusts, but he can’t help it. “The blue only feeds the red; none of the Red Templars can have any until their procedures are complete.”

Maxwell grunts, face falling. “I can treat the concussion and some of the worst pain, but this’ll just keep happening again until he’s completely clean. You and Mer- uh, the Inquisitor should do the cleansing as soon as possible. The Taint is fucking around with his body and even with his resistance, I don’t think he’ll hold out more than a few months without intervention.” He pulls away from Samson, the glow fading as he stands on unsteady feet. “Maker only knows how the other Reds are faring, considering this. I’ll need to take a look at them. How many are being held right now?”

“Not counting those still imprisoned in the Wilds due to lack of space? Just under eighty Templars.” Orsino sighs, tired and heartsick. “We have a long road ahead of us if we mean to treat all of them before the Red takes them completely.” 

Maxwell echoes him with a sigh of resignation. No matter how they may resent Templars personally, neither mage enjoys seeing their suffering or slow decay. It is inevitable that many will die before or during the procedure, and no one knows if even spirit healing will be enough to save their crystallized limbs and broken minds. “I’ll call for a stretcher to take him to the infirmary for treatment. Keep an eye on him until I get back? You may need to take measures if he starts to seize-”

“Go,” Orsino orders firmly. He doesn’t want to think of all the ways this moment can take a turn from bad to worse. “I will await your return.” Maxwell leaves, the swish of his long coat loud as he hurries across the cell block to the stairs. Orsino turns back to Samson, prone and still as a corpse on the floor but for his ragged breathing. “Fuck, Raleigh,” he murmurs, kneeling back down by his side. Echoes of Samson’s pleas, the desperate apologies spilling out still ring in Orsino’s ears. “You stupid, stubborn man. What were you even apologizing for? Letting a madman convince you-?” he cuts himself off, clenching teeth over the words falling useless from his mouth. The man isn’t awake to hear him; there is no point in spilling his guts to empty air. 

The cleansing will have to be put off, at least until Samson wakes. Neither Merrill nor Orsino wants to perform it until the man knows exactly what will be happening...and how they will do it. The man is a Templar, corrupt or not, and no one wishes to be touched – let alone healed – by blood magic. It is not a conversation Orsino looks forward to. But it must be done. 

He lets his composure crack, just a bit, enough to reach for Samson’s hand again. It is probably the last time Orsino will ever be allowed to touch him. 

* * *

Crisp cotton sheets under him and a bright beam of sunlight, arching across stone.  Where is he?

He sleeps for a long time.

When he wakes up again, he hears rain, though it sounds far off.  His head pounds, even his bones feel scraped raw.  “Where’m I?” he asks, his throat burning.  

He’s not expecting a reply  – but one comes, soft, from somewhere that he cannot see: “You’re safe.  Watching and waiting, he wonders over you.  Down into the dreamless depths, and down again, you’ll fall.  He will be here when you wake.”

_ Not an answer _ , he thinks, then sleeps again.

 

But all too soon, the pain brings him back to the world.  When Samson opens his eyes for the third time, he hears voices arguing as if from behind a closed door.  He listens, as much as he can, and then gives it up as a bad job  – the words sound hissed and, through the door, are virtually unintelligible.  Perhaps he hears his name, but he finds he doesn’t care enough to be concerned; the pain is becoming all encompassing, every single part of his body is a torment to him.  

Samson tries to shift, to get more comfortable, but he cannot move without causing great stabs of pain, like glass in all his joints.  From far off, he hears the swish of the door, the thump of wood-on-wood as it closes, a soft footfall.  He whines without meaning to, high-pitched and plaintive, and the noise of it scares him badly.   _ Maker’s Balls, _ he thinks, staring up at the pale wash of winter sunlight over the stone of the ceiling above him,  _ This is a shitty way to go.   _ He takes a shallow breath, feeling terror gnaw at his guts as he considers that perhaps this will be his life now.   _ No, no.  Better to die _ , he thinks desperately, guiltily, feeling tears slip from the corners of his eyes.  He flexes his fingers slightly, even this tiny movement sending shards of horrible pain shooting up his arms, and once again the whine, that awful, pathetic, piteous sound, escapes him.  Then there is a presence close by, and someone puts their hand into his.  He sighs and closes his eyes.  “Please, don’t leave,” he whispers.

* * *

It shouldn’t surprise him that Samson is awake; the way the man’s been thrashing and groaning in his sleep, he was bound to wake up soon if only from the pain. Orsino swallows, lets his hand tighten marginally around the man’s while trying not to cause any more hurt. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmurs, mindful of the few soldiers still laid up at the other side of the infirmary. Maxwell had finally left hours ago, coaxed away to sleep by the spirit boy. The room is quiet but for the soft crackle of the braziers and Samson’s low keening. Orsino shifts closer to the bed in order to set his free hand on the man’s shoulder. Gentle as he tries to be, Samson still flinches under his touch. A moment later he relaxes, just marginally, and Orsino takes it as a sign not to pull away. “You’re in the infirmary, you lost consciousness in the dungeons. Commander Rutherford pushed you into a wall, remember?” 

Samson doesn’t reply and when Orsino looks up, bloodshot eyes meet his own until they squeeze shut and the man’s head turns away without a word. 

“Samson. Your symptoms are getting worse. Enchanter Trevelyan said you have a few months, perhaps, before the red takes you. Merrill wanted to perform the cleansing before you woke but… this procedure is risky, not to mention controversial. We decided to wait until you regained yourself.” The words trip over each other, coming out in a rush, but Orsino wants to make him understand. Even through the heart-stopping terror that bloomed on watching this man crumple to the ground and his desire to do something –  _ anything _ – to fix it, he still can’t relinquish his convictions upholding the importance of choice. 

Even if the choice is barely a choice at all. He waits for Samson to speak, to ask a question and for a moment to follow where the hand in his will be pulled away.

* * *

 

The pain is so dense that Samson can hardly believe it.  He takes in words without realising their meaning or their import – _symptoms, cleansing, controversial_.  He blinks, staring for a moment at the opposite wall.  Maker, he hates this.  To be so helpless, so at the mercy of everything around him.   _Comin’ home to roost now though, isn’t it?_ some hateful part of his mind whispers gleefully, _You thought you were so powerful, you felt like the Maker’s fucking chosen, you with your resistance.  Doesn’t feel like you got chosen for shit now, does it?_

He grimaces, then turns to face Orsino again.  Orsino.  For some strange reason, he’s not surprised to see him there, whole, alive.  Why not?  When everything else has gone completely to shit, why not have Orsino here to witness his fall?  He almost laughs at the perfect, stupid irony.  What he feels for this man  – it’s still there, still completely, utterly inexplicable in its intensity.  He realises, all of a sudden, that this is not the infatuation of a lonely man, reaching out for anything in a time of crisis.  It is more durable than that.  More beautiful, more desperately painful.  As his eyes rove over Orsino’s face  – much more careworn now, the brow creased with concern, that strange luminosity to the eyes, his slate-grey hair scraped back carefully from his temples as usual  – Samson shivers, and it has nothing to do with the pain.  He tries to smile, tongue sliding dryly against his lips.  “Do it,” he rasps, every syllable burning in his throat, “Show my boys… show ‘em there’s more.  After.  Give ‘em hope.”  He tries to clear his throat, winces at the taste of blood there again.  “Tell me what you’re gonna do, if you want.  If it’ll make you feel better.  But either way, do it.”  He squeezes Orsino’s hand, watching the world begin to grey at the edges again. “I trust you.”

* * *

 

Orsino knows what it is to be powerless. He didn’t see it, not until Maud’s death, but he’s spent the majority of his living memory with the headsman’s axe hanging above his neck, waiting for him to put one toe out of line. And Samson...right now this man is the epitome of powerless, bedridden and surrounded by enemies who need not even kill him, but let him waste away simply through neglect. And yet, he smiles at Orsino for a moment and says the words that resonate through the elf’s entire body. 

Trust. Samson trusts Orsino with his life, with his body, perhaps even his agency if the news he is about to share goes well. It’s heady thought that fills him with a hope that refuses to dim even as he forces an answering smile off his face. He takes a breath. 

“The cleansing procedure is a simple ritual...one that uses the caster’s blood to enter a subject’s body and...collect the Taint, for lack of a better word. The tainted blood is extracted to be destroyed later.” He pauses. His eyes shut somewhere through the explanation, not wishing to see the dawning horror on Samson’s face. “We’ve tested it on pure red lyrium: the procedure renders it completely inert – no Blight and no magic resonance that we can discern. For all intents and purposes, the lyrium becomes...a chunk of rock and nothing else. Despite that, our dwarf arcanist Dagna will be handling the surgeries to remove the lyrium in case of unforeseen side-effects or complications…” Orsino swallows, tries to ignore the way Samson’s grip has gone tight around his. “Merrill and I will be performing your cleansing, and I will work alone on your men when she is away.”

* * *

 

Samson swallows, that feeling like glass in his throat.   _ Blood magic? _ his mind gibbers, completely unconscious of the way his grip has tightened around Orsino’s hand.   _ No.  Not that.  And how could… how could he know anything about… about… _ but the thought trails off into incoherency as another wave of pain floods through him.   _ Maker, does it matter?  _ he asks himself, feeling panic like a rat running wheels in his stomach, in his head.   _ You used to think you were so strong.  If you can’t do it for yourself, then do it for them.  Orsino said he’d try to fix the boys too.  Fix the mistakes you’ve made.   _

He gasps, squeezes his eyes shut against the pain, which mounts and mounts.  Finally, it breaks, and Samson is able to open his eyes again.  He sees Orsino sitting with his eyes closed.  On the surface, he seems serene, but there is something which seems… not ashamed, but nervous.   _ He’s worryin’ about how I’ll take it, _ Samson thinks in amazement,  _ He wants me to survive, but he didn’t wanna do it against my will _ .  He exhales a short breath, the ghost of a laugh, and tries to smile.  Orsino opens his eyes slowly, and Samson’s smile grows.  “Go on then,” he says, throwing caution to the winds.  And then, because who knows, this may be his last chance, and Maker damn him if he’s not going to try for a brief moment of bliss in all of this mess, he rasps, “Might need a kiss for luck before you start though.”

* * *

 

That. That was not what he expected. Orsino stares down at Samson in a moment of absolute, blank shock before a chuckle bursts out of his mouth even as he feels his ears go red. “I- you…” he laughs, stifling it quickly when one of the soldiers at the other end of the room stirs on her cot. Unexpected giddiness bubbles in his chest, because Samson just  _ said that _ , and he still hasn’t let go of Orsino’s hand. The quick turnaround in his emotional state wreaks havoc on his thought processes. He’s smiling even as logic wins out. 

“We can’t do the procedure here – the Inquisitor has a reputation, but I can’t afford to be labelled a maleficar in my position. I’ll arrange to have you transported to the Undercroft as soon as possible.” 

He stands, gently prying his hand from the man’s grip and looking down. Samson is a mess even in the dim torchlight. Pale and permanently bruised under the eyes, his too-thin face covered with dirt and tear tracks and traces of blood around his mouth. How in the Void can he look at this man and still find him beautiful? But he does. Oh, he does, and it’s a revelation.

Samson’s expression shuttered as soon as Orsino let go, but his red eyes widen when Orsino steps forward to lean over him, bringing a hand up to his face. The mage wipes a streak of rust-colored blood off his cheek with an uncovered thumb. “For luck,” he murmurs, and presses his mouth to Samson’s.

* * *

Samson’s grin fades as Orsino starts telling him about the political nuances of being labeled a maleficar at Skyhold, and having to move him.   _ It’s alright _ , he tells himself, trying to will the disappointment away and failing miserably,  _ probably just thinks it was a joke.   _

So when Orsino rises, pulling his hand out of Samson’s grasp, he tries to smile for both their sakes.  Something in him won’t do it though, keeps insisting that there’s something there, something in Orsino’s expression that speaks of more, that he feels the same.  There, there it is  – that tiny pull of the lips, the almost reluctant softening of the features, the sweet blush on his ears.  In an instant, Samson notices all this, and then Orsino bends slightly to brush something off his cheek, and he blinks, feeling his eyes widen.  They fall closed as he relishes the touch, so soft, so gentle, so unlike anything he has ever experienced, tender, heartfelt.  He hears Orsino murmur something he doesn’t quite catch and then…

Oh Maker, oh Maker, then his lips are on Samson’s mouth, the warm brush of breath on his skin and he smells of copper and elfroot, his skin is soft, so soft, that hand on his cheek.  Samson inhales through his nose, puts his hand out blindly, finding Orsino’s shoulder, trying to pull him closer.  Oh Maker, this is madness, beautiful, perfect madness, he wants it, he wants it all, wants Orsino pressed against him forever, wants whatever this is, whatever it might be.  Gently, Orsino strokes his cheek and Samson moans into his mouth, scarcely feeling the adrenaline coursing through him, hardly caring about anything else.  He feels Orsino smile against his lips, and the elf slowly pulls away.  Samson swallows, trying to rise, trying to chase those lips with his own, and can’t quite make his weakened body do it.  For a long time, it seems, they only look at each other, Samson panting, his heart hammering in his chest, each flex of his fingers on Orsino’s chest sending bolts of pain into his forearm  – pain which he hardly feels.  “Please,” he asks, hating how pathetic he sounds but needing to ask anyway, “Please, don’t go.”

* * *

 

Orsino lets the smile on his face fall into one even gentler to match the warm glow growing inside his chest. His pulse is racing, but all he can concentrate on are Samson’s heaving breaths; how he tasted like old blood but Orsino still wants to drop back down to feel those lips against his again. He can’t, though. This space is too public, the call of his duties urgent in the back of his mind. Merrill will not begrudge him another moment with this man, he has no doubt, but the sooner they can treat him, the better. 

“I don’t want to, but I must,” he speaks softly, letting himself caress Samson’s cheek one more time before he brings his hand up to grasp the one on his chest. Samson is shaking, obvious to Orsino now he takes the time to notice the pain in his face and the way his hand trembles in his grip. He leans again, pressing his mouth to Samson’s knuckles in a parody of the gesture he made to Orsino last year by the gates of Redthorne. “Merrill told me to get her as soon as you wake. I’m already pushing the limits of that order, I’m afraid. I must go to her, then I will be right back, I promise.” And how he wishes he could simply send a runner to fetch her, but the order was clear – this must be done as quickly as they can manage with as few people in the know as possible. Temptation is present: could this not wait until morning? But no, Samson is in pain and they can do nothing to alleviate his suffering when elfroot or other drugs might interfere with the ritual. 

He turns the man’s hand over gently, and lays another kiss on Samson’s rough palm before he lowers the hand slowly back against the Templar’s side. “I will be right back,” he repeats, stepping away.

* * *

 

As soon as Orsino leaves, the door clicking closed behind him, Samson begins to worry.  The prospect of blood magic churns his guts, certainly, but in the end, he does believe Orsino, respects the man enough to understand that this is not a conclusion which he’s reached without a good deal of thought and research.  And either way, he knows the time has come to move in either direction  – to either fold in the face of the hurricane, or to do something about this pain, this all-encompassing, terrible pain.  Orsino has presented him with the only option which is tenable to him, the only option which will allow him to retain a shred of dignity.

  
No.  This worry stems from the little voice in the back of his head which tells him that there is no way a man like Orsino could possibly feel about Samson the way that Samson does about him.  He wants to rub his lips, and has to settle for licking them when he finds he cannot raise his hands to his face.  He tastes Orsino against them, and sighs.  That part was real at least.  He closes his eyes, tries to imagine Orsino’s face, picture how it looked as he took his leave.  Was that reluctance or relief in his eyes?   _ Come on, _ he tells himself,  _ there’s no way.  He’s too… and you’re… not to bloody mention that you used to be his fucking jailor.  You might have been one of the softer of the breed, but a wolf who weeps is still a fucking wolf.  How much mage blood is on your hands?   _ He tries to swallow, but his throat is so tight, so sore now and he finds he cannot.  One of the great waves of pain, which had seemed so manageable when Orsino was present, rises up within him, and he finds it is suddenly all too much.  He gasps, hands crooking into claws against the crisp cotton of the sheets, and grits his teeth.  He waits.

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

The guards on the Inquisitor’s quarters let him through with little fuss, used to the way Orsino will appear at all hours with arms full of scrolls and a scowl on his face. The female eyes his empty hands as he approaches, but says nothing when Orsino passes her by to enter the tower. 

Merrill is awake, of course. Her insomnia is worse than his, though most of her nights are spent bent over Inquisition paperwork rather than arcane research. “Come in!” she calls when he knocks, a smile gracing her face when she sees it’s him. “Oh, Orsino! Is everything alright? Is Samson awake?” He barely manages a nod when she continues. “You look happy. Did something good happen?”

Blast the woman’s uncanny perception, and blast the smile he hasn’t been able to completely wipe from his face. “Ah...in a way. Samson is awake and he’s consented to the procedure,” he says, not lying but not quite willing to discuss...whatever this is between them with Merrill and her incessant questions at such a late hour. 

Merrill hums, reaching to strap her knife back to her waist. “That’s good! I’ll get Dagna – she’s probably in the Undercroft.”

“Still?” Orsino frowns, well aware of the hypocrisy of his next question. “Shouldn’t she be abed at this hour?” Technically, all of them should be getting as much rest as possible considering their workload in the days to come. 

She shrugs, moving to pick up her staff from the corner. “Well, dwarves don’t dream, so it seems rather silly to waste time sleeping, doesn’t it? She’s probably working on that dragon-slaying rune Bull requested last week.” Merrill moves through the door and Orsino follows, not paying much mind when when a white array appears behind them in a shower of sparks then disappearing as the lock clicks shut. In an organization where spies lurk at every corner, extra security never hurts. They arrive at the base of the tower and Merrill opens the door so the guards can hear before turning to him. “Have Miranda and Jim help you carry him to the Undercroft. I’ll make sure Dagna is ready for us to begin by the time you arrive, all right?”

Orsino dips his head in assent while the guards straighten at their names, saluting in acknowledgement.  _ Amusing, how often she makes her orders sound like requests _ . In any other leader the trait would chafe, but Merrill’s authority holds no arrogance, only the assurance of someone who has seen much in her short life and is willing to take criticism into account when it is given. This is why, despite her young age and his own lack of belief in her status as “Andraste’s chosen”, Orsino is willing to capitulate to her rule. 

Merrill smiles, and a moment later she disappears across the half-lit great hall. The guards turn to him and Orsino stiffens with a sudden knot of anxiety in his stomach at being alone, faced with the attention of two armed humans. He smothers it ruthlessly.  _ They have no Templar powers, _ he assures himself.  _ I could roast them alive in their armor before they even finish drawing a sword _ . The thought is morbid, but enough to make his hands unclench and his voice even when he tells them to follow him to the infirmary. He wants to get back to Samson as soon as possible. 

And how strange is it, that the mere thought of an actual Templar is enough to quell the last churnings of his gut.

* * *

Orsino is cursing violently by the time they make it to the Undercroft, Samson lying unconscious between the two guards as they move the stretcher to the worktable Dagna indicates. Miranda, the female guard, shoots him a startled look as he continues to swear under his breath, but Merrill thanks her and waves them off. 

“He won’t wake,” Orsino bites out when the door closes behind the guards. “He was conscious when I left, but by the time I made it back none of us could rouse him-” 

“He has a fever,” Dagna announces before he can sink too far into the fear threatening to close his throat. “It’ll pass with time, but it’s probably best we do the cleansing now, before he gets any worse.” 

Merrill reaches over, squeezing his elbow gently before leading him to one of the chairs by the low worktable where Samson lies. Nearby stands another table, full of sharp implements, the ingredients for various poultices, and two large stoneware jars. Merrill hands him one before she takes the second to the other side of the work bench. The jars are a Redthorne commission, covered in runes to be unbreakable and capable of containing the Blight, but Orsino isn’t looking at them. Instead he stares down at Samson’s chalk-white face, the way his eyes flicker under their lids as if he’s caught in the throes of a nightmare and  _ Maker _ , but his heart can’t take this-

“Orsino?” his head snaps up to meet Merrill’s pensive gaze. She sits with the jar open and tucked between her legs, her knife in hand. “Are you ready?” Dagna waits by her side, holding a writing board akin to Josephine’s to take notes on their every move. 

Orsino takes a deep breath, pulls off one glove to bare the backside of his arm where a scar has already begun to form from past experimentation. “...ready.”

* * *

 

The sounds all echo here, and even the air seems green.

Samson blinks, swallowing, right hand immediately feeling for the pommel of his sword on his left hip.   _ Where am I? _ he wonders, eyes scanning the depths of the forest where he finds himself.  The leaves crackle underfoot, and he hears the laughter of children in the distance.  Slowly, he walks forward, through the undergrowth, watching, listening intently.  He feels a pulling sensation, somewhere at the base of his throat, moving down his body, but it is so faint that in spite of the strangeness of it, he can easily shrug it off.  The laughter grows louder as he approaches, but under it he hears a small child yelling in a language he doesn’t understand.  

He peers through the trees and frowns in consternation.  There before him in the clearing are five or six aravel, painted in sweeping curls of ochre and white.  There are several adult elves around the fringes of the clearing, but their outline seem hazy – almost as if he is in someone else’s memory.  Only the children are in clear focus.  Several older ones laugh together, throwing some little object, it looks like a tiny carving, back and forth, while a small, dark haired girl yells at them, her arms outstretched toward the object.  The older children laugh as Samson watches, and the little girl squeals suddenly in frustration and stamps her foot.  Suddenly, vines erupt from under the ground, curling up viciously, whipping at the air and just as quickly vanishing again in a cloud of dirt.  The older children scream in terror, and begin running; one trips, stumbles to the ground and drops the little carving.  The girl watches them calmly, then begins walking toward the small white wooden object, bends to pick it up and

There is a shimmer in the air, and Samson gasps, holding his head in sudden pain.  The world goes red, then black, then the blackness fades to a dim, mossy green once more.  In that moment of pain, it seemed he remembered  – remembered being carried from one room to another, lower down.  Remembered a smiling dwarf, one who’d asked him too many questions that he couldn’t answer  – a curious elf, dark hair and kind eyes, her scarred palm against his cheek, gentle words in his ear, even as she’d drawn a knife.  Terror, then another elf, his face a war of emotion.  Who was that?  His mind fixates on the man’s face, the way the features had worked, the way he’d seemed to almost reflect Samson’s own agitation.   _ Sino _ , his mind whispers, but it means nothing to him.  He sighs and frowns.

Blinking, he looks at his new surroundings, frowning as the realisation of his whereabouts dawns.  This is the Gallows.  But everything is green, strangely soft-focus.  He shakes his head, looking down the corridor, then begins to walk slowly.  Fabric shifts around his ankles, and he looks down  – stunned, he sees he wears an Enchanter’s robes.   _ What _ ? he wonders helplessly, and then there is a noise from the other end of the corridor and he turns.

“Please, please,” the woman is begging, her face red and blotchy with crying, “P-please, sers, I didn’t, it, it wasn’t me, I… please, not in there, not in there, I can’t, don’t…”  There is a Templar on either side of her  – they are physically dragging her down the corridor, not responding at all to the litany of her words.  She is looking from one helm to another, desperate, then her eyes fall on him.  “First Enchanter!” she gasps, her feet struggling against the bare floor, “Don’t let them do this!  I was only talking to him, I didn’t know he was a maleficar, I never, please..!”

“What is the meaning of this?” The words are out of his mouth before he realises what he is about to say, and he puzzles at them.   _ Isn’t it obvious _ ? he asks himself, even as the visored Templar responds, not slowing his stride for a second, “Knight Commander’s orders, First Enchanter.  This inmate has known associations with blood mages.  Can’t take risks.”

“No!” the woman howls as she is dragged away, “No!  Not me, it wasn’t me, you can’t  _ do _ this!  Orsino, tell them!  Tell them please! I…” They reach the end of the corridor as he watches  – one Templar leans forward, throwing the door open with a smack, and then helps his fellow drag the frantic woman through.  The door slams shut behind them and he

That strange shiver in the air again and Maker, oh Maker that pain, it’s as if he’s covered in a thousand tiny cuts and it-

There is nothing but blackness for a long time after that.

* * *

 

The cleansing takes three hours. Two to remove every trace of crystal in Samson’s body and another to go over every inch again, to make sure not even the barest vestige of Blight remains. Blood wells slowly with every heartbeat from his arm but Orsino pays no mind, too focused on willing this little bit of life force to move through Samson’s veins, his muscles, flowing through his brain and digging deep into bone as he roots out the corruption. He is glad, now, that the man is not awake, for he can feel the jerk of muscles under his hand as he scrapes over raw nerves. He drags the Taint out through one of two tiny cuts made in the man’s chest – it fights him, wresting at his control as it tries to spread back into Samson’s body, to the air, and finally Orsino himself as he forces it through the mouth of the jar. Its runes glow eerie red, the enchantment refusing to let what’s put in come back out again. 

Then it’s over. Orsino can see nothing, feel nothing but Samson’s now steady heartbeat under his outstretched hand. Dagna hands him a goblet full of water which he takes, drinking gratefully but still not looking away from Samson as Merrill makes a gesture and the cuts on the man’s chest seal, any leftover blood turning black and crusty. 

He sighs, lets the blood coagulate on his own wound as he leans back on the wooden chair. 

Dagna appears in his periphery, a vial in hand that he knows contains a sedative and pain reliever. “Now that’s done, help me get this in him, would you? It’s time for the hard part.”

* * *

 

Gradually, the darkness lifts.  Slowly, Samson becomes aware of the warmth of the smooth cotton against his skin, the tightness of bandages.  There is a sickroom smell to this place, smells of elfroot and mustard, the dirty copper of old blood.  He swallows, feels his body heavy, soothed by something which clouds his head, makes his fingers feel tingly.  The darkness behind his eyes continues to shift, to lighten to pale grey, and then, almost against his will, Samson opens them.  

Sunlight streams in, pouring across the ceiling in a brilliant pale-gold swathe.  The sight of it makes him smile through the haze, and then memories begin to swarm into his conscious mind – a memory of being here before in this place, a memory of a face, a gentle hand in his, a question.  Lips on his, a kiss.  Samson takes a short breath, the memories coming thick and fast now.  Orsino.  Where was he?  A tremor of memory curls to the surface of his mind, like some mis-remembered dream – _Orsino!  Tell them!  Tell them please!_ – and then it is gone.  He hears a quick footstep approach over the stone and turns toward the source of the noise.  Samson smiles at the newcomer, relief washing over him as he reaches out a hand, palm outward.  “You did it,” he says, feeling close to tears, “I can’t believe it.  I never… I didn’t…”  he sighs, not knowing how to make the words come.  Orsino takes his hand, looking at him in concern, and Samson blinks at the bandage peeking out from the edge of his sleeve.  “You did it,” he repeats, and bites his lip, staring up at Orsino’s face.  “Thank you,” he murmurs, and looks down at their clasped hands.  There seems to be nothing more he can say.

Orsino holds Samson’s hand in his and can’t help the smile that steals over his face. He wants to say  _ I promised you would be well again _ , but those words never passed his lips, then or now, for all he carried the mantra in his heart. “Yes, it worked. You are welcome.” He hesitates then, casting his eye around the bright infirmary, now empty. Before he can really think it through he leans down, feeling just bold enough to press a kiss to the man’s stubbled cheek before he pulls away to grab the stool by the bed. His heart starts to gain speed, but Orsino does his best to ignore it.

When he looks back it’s to see Samson staring at him with half-focused eyes. Orsino sits, rubbing his thumb over the back of the man’s hand to bring his attention back. “Are you well? In any pain?” He can’t help the worry that creeps into his voice – the man is covered head to toe in bandages, wrapping up the many places that couldn’t be sealed by blood magic alone.

Orsino’s touch on his cheek, the light press of lips, sends Samson’s heart into his throat, makes the soft-focus world suddenly awash with colour and texture  – and pain.  He narrows his eyes slightly, stoicism getting the better of him, feeling Orsino move to pull up something to sit on and begin to stroke the back of his hand.  He hears the questions and nods, grimacing.  “Yeah,” he mutters, “Well.  You know.  As well as might be expected.” He grins tiredly, “Must have been that luck you gave me.”

He hears Orsino snort, and turns his head, looking carefully at the elf.  Without thinking much about it, he says, “You look tired.  Was it hard?  Did… does it… hurt?” He squeezes the hand holding his gently and laughs a little at his own wide-eyed candor.  “You’d think I’d know more about magic, livin’ in a Circle surrounded by mages for so many years.  But it’s weird.  We’re all so leery of it, ‘specially all that Forbidden School crap, that…” he shrugs and grins, half closing his eyes again and stifling a yawn.  “Sorry.  I’m burbling. Sorta feels a bit unreal, all this.  You here.  Holdin’ my hand.”  He swallows hard, “Kissin’ me.  ‘Sino, I get you don’t wanna… let me down, you’re trying to give me something to hope for, something after all this.  But… don’t promise something that’s not there.”  He huffs a breath, trying to make his meaning felt without words, ignoring the pain as he looks into Orsino’s eyes.  “Don’t get me wrong, I want this.  You.  Whatever.  I just… don’t want to make your life harder than it needs to be.  I already did that enough.”  He swallows again, closes his eyes, and tries to prepare for Orsino to tell him that yes, he is right.  When Orsino says nothing, Samson tells him, with eyes still closed, “Go on.  You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

* * *

Orsino has to bite back the first few responses that leap to his tongue.  _ You are a fool _ is one, stemming from the frustration the last few days have built up in him. “If you think that I am leaving now,” he starts, voice as even and measured as he can make it, “you are sorely mistaken. The same, if you believe that I will ever again do something I do not wish to-”

“That’s not what… I didn’t…” Samson begins, and huffs out a breath.  For a moment, he visibly grinds his teeth together, opening his eyes only to glare at the ceiling, then he looks fiercely at Orsino.  “I keep thinking you might feel the same way I do, that’s all.  And…”

Orsino watches him back, his mind racing.  _ Does he mean… _ His hand goes tighter around the other man’s, and he damns his ears as they go red again. He knows what he wants, but the words refuse to come to the forefront when he calls for them. “How you feel…” he trails off, not with a question but hoping desperately for an answer. A specific answer. 

“Yeah.”  Samson only stares at him, then snorts.  “C’mon.  I know I haven’t…” he clenches his jaw, wincing, and then takes a deep breath.  Soon though, the storm passes, and he relaxes once more.  “I’m not subtle about this sort of thing.  I know that.  Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed?” He looks at the expression on Orsino’s face and snorts again in apparent exasperation, shaking his head, “‘Sino, fuck sakes.  I.... I fancy you.  Alright?”

And Maker, he half-expected –  _ hoped _ – for this, but the words still make his mouth drop open a little and pull the hot flush from his ears to the rest of his face. He swallows, stutters, “I- no, I... I’m not here merely to…to give you hope, as you said.” He looks down at their clasped hands again. “I also hold a deep affection for you. I...my life has never been easy, Sam- Raleigh. And it’s never going to be, I think, no matter what strides we’ve made. So if there’s a chance...a chance for something good with you, with us, I would like to take it.”

* * *

 

Samson chortles.  “Deep affection, huh?” he murmurs, then grins.  “Yeah.  It’s something like that, I guess.”  Maker, he’d said it, he’d  _ finally _ said it, and  _ he feels the same! _ Samson exalts, even as he feels the sting of the sentiment behind the phrase,  _ my life has never been easy _ .  He widens his smile at Orsino, opens his mouth to say more, the relief of having it out in the open making him feel delightfully reckless.  And then, exhaustion and pain pours into him, and he shudders and groans, squeezing his eyes shut.

Orsino grips his hand tighter in response. “I should leave you be,” the elf murmurs. 

“No, no,” Samson gasps, “Please, don’t, don’t go, I…” He sucks in a breath, holds it, tries to wait out the pain like last time.  But this mounts and mounts, becoming a blare in his head, all through his chest, making his stomach roil with it. He feels tears seep out from under his eyelids, scarcely conscious of how tightly he is gripping Orsino’s hand.  Into the silence Orsino speaks.

“You need sleep, Raleigh. And so do I. The procedure was a success; Merrill plans to work with two more of your men tomorrow.” And there is a shift, Orsino’s hand carding through his hair despite how dirty he knows it must feel. “The infirmary will be relegated for the Templars for the foreseeable future, barring emergencies. I will come to see you tomorrow before we begin, if you wish it.”

“Yeah, please.  Please,” Samson gasps, his eyes still squeezed shut.  “Sino, how long of this?  How long’m I gonna be...”

“Weeks, at least. I… we can give you more painkillers for the first week, but I’m afraid our head herbalist put his foot down on any more than that. You’ve been...Raleigh, we had to pull a thimble-sized chunk of lyrium out of your neck. It’s amazing you can move at all right now. And the withdrawals…” he trails off, pressing harder against Samson’s scalp with blunt nails. 

Samson grunts, moves his head slightly into Orsino’s touch.  “Alright,” he murmurs, then swallows.  “Don’t want any more painkillers.  Give ‘em to the boys.  Some of them…” he grunts, holding his breath again, then tells Orsino quickly, “Worse than me.  Sleep.  That’s all... all I need.”

* * *

 

“We already have been, the ones who will take them…” Orsino sighs, watches the man drift off to the Fade without a response. That’s alright.  _ No need to get into another discussion with both of us so tired _ . And he is exhausted, the excited adrenaline of their confessions moments before draining from him like water from a sieve. He waits a few moments more, eyes glued to the reassuring rise and fall of Samson’s chest. Minutes pass before Orsino can bring himself to release the man’s hand. He climbs stiffly to his feet, leans over to press a soft kiss to Samson’s forehead, lined even in his dreams with deep furrows from stress and age. 

“Sleep well, Raleigh,” he whispers, and leaves the room with weary steps but a soaring heart.

* * *

 

The second procedure takes exactly half an hour, with only one mage at a time able to perform the cleansing. Orsino strains, blood dripping from his arm a little faster as he exerts more effort to hold the Horror down when it starts thrashing again. They tried using rope, but it broke through with only a few moments’ effort and none of the Inquisition’s cuffs will fit around limbs covered in mineral spikes. Merrill chants under her breath, drowned out by the Horror’s high-pitched shrieks and growls as she pulls the Taint from it bit by bit. Dagna stands away from them, no longer taking notes but at the forge tossing globs of silverite into a crucible as she works to form shackles for their next subject. 

One of the red spikes protruding from the Horror’s chest goes black in one instant, fading to pale red the next. Orsino watches as it grows paler, whiter, until the protrusion reaches the hue of a chalky winter sky with only the barest tint of blue. The spike above it starts to do the same as Merrill works her way up, up into its neck. And then its head. Blood hazes into the air when the Horror thrashes harder than before, an unearthly wail escaping its lips as Orsino’s control slips just slightly. He immediately grips it again, locking muscles and bone into place against the worktable. 

He looks up when Merrill gasps, sees her cover her mouth with her hands despite the blood that coats them both. “Oh...oh no.” She’s too pale, brows knit in an emotion Orsino can’t read before her bright green eyes turn to him, already brimming with tears. “I...can’t. Poor thing, her...her brain’s already half-gone, turned to mineral.  _ Elgar-nan _ , the lyrium is the only thing keeping her alive right now. We can’t- if we cleanse it, there’s no magic in the lyrium. She’ll die.”

The bottom of Orsino’s stomach drops out. Dagna’s tongs clatter against the flagstones. There’s silence for a moment but for the crackle of coal in the forge and the constant susurrus of the waterfall outside. Orsino closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath.  _ We knew this would happen _ , he tells himself.  _ We knew there are some who are too far gone to be saved, but… _ He looks to Merrill. 

“Do we know who it- she is? Do we have any identifying information about her?” he asks, but Merrill is already shaking her head. 

“The Red Templars don’t carry any identifying documents. And I don’t think...I don’t think there’s enough left of her to get her to tell me, even with blood magic to force it.” She looks heartbroken, voice trembling on every word. It pains him to see the normally strong, bright woman acting like this. He meets her gaze. “You know what we have to do.”

Merrill turns away, lays her hand on the Horror’s arm between the lyrium spikes. “Do it, please.” 

Orsino gestures, there is a crunch and a snap. It is a quick, clean death.

* * *

 

Merrill lays her hand against the Red Templar’s brow. The man on their table is a Knight-Captain by his insignia, already halfway through his transition to a Horror by the look of his teeth and the amount of lyrium reaching from his arms and torso like hungry fingers. His eyes dart between them in naked terror as they lay him on the table. It’s only when the shackles close around his wrists and ankles that he begins to struggle. A red haze surrounds them for a few seconds, and a moment later the Templar goes limp and docile beneath Merrill’s fingers. 

“Can you tell me your name?” she asks softly. For a long moment the Knight-Captain looks up at her with blood-clouded eyes, not speaking. 

Then: “Car….Carroll,” he replies, voice rattling around the room with a unearthly growl that shakes Orsino’s bones. 

“Carroll, that’s a nice name,” Merrill coos. “Do you know why you’re here?”

“...Gen...General Samson? Where… hurts....” the man’s warped face twists further in pain and struggle. “Can’t...can’t give in…I- the General said to-” he stops, closes his eyes. Merrill looks up from him to Orsino. 

“There’s damage in his brain, too, but I don’t think it’s from the red,” she says, pulling her hand away. “There’s so much built up in his bones, it can’t just be the red – it grows outward. The blue is what stays in…”

Understanding dawns slowly. “His mind was already partially eroded before he became a Red Templar.” Merrill nods affirmation as Orsino straightens, coming to stand closer to the workbench. “Will he survive the cleansing? Or the surgery?” he throws the last to Dagna. 

The dwarf looks Carroll over, mouth turned into a deep frown. “Based on just what I can observe on the outside… It’ll be tricky, and intense. He’s probably going to lose a lot of muscle from the extraction if he hasn’t already, maybe some of the bone in his shoulders. But I think he’ll make it,” she finally decides, scribbling over her parchment. “Are you guys ready? I’ve got a couple poultices to whip up before my part.” 

Orsino looks to Merrill for confirmation. She’s already making the cuts to Carroll’s bare torso, her jar open beside her. He pulls up his sleeves. “It seems that we are.”

* * *

 

Samson sleeps in fits and starts, not aware of the coming of the sun or the moon.  The first week passes in a haze of terror and pain – he can see the worry on Orsino’s face, see the way his brow knits when Samson refuses pain relief again and again.  “For the boys, I said,” he tells the man through gritted teeth, then barks a laugh.  “Don’t think I don’t see…  _ aw, Maker _ !” his guts clench, the fire of fever is all through him now, but he knows, he knows he has to be strong.  For the boys.  Show them there’s a way.

He’s not an idiot, he knows the score.  Time was that he’d written to the Lieutenants that they were to give those enduring the changes wrought by the lyrium as much elfroot as they required to deal with the pain.  They’d almost stripped the Hinterlands bare of the stuff, dealt with the Carta for more.  More elfroot, of all the things.  And that was when the change was accepted by the body  – this is going in the opposite direction.  He shakes his head minutely, staring up at the ceiling as he thinks.  There’s nothing to be done about it, but him not taking it at least frees up the rations that someone else might get.   _ Hopeless _ , he thinks, wanting to roll over onto his side, not wanting to aggravate the pain.  

And then there is the fact that, although the entire infirmary has been given over to the rehabilitated Red Templars, there are so Maker-damned few of them coming in.  Is the process really so slow?   _ No _ , Samson thinks,  _ they’re dyin’.  You don’t even have to ask Orsino  _ _ – _ _ he wants to tell you, but he can’t do it.  Not in words.  But it’s in his eyes every time he looks at you.  You killed them.  Those poor boys just wanted something to believe in, and all you gave ‘em was death.   _ He feels his throat tighten and sneers at the ceiling.   _ Yeah, and fuckin’ cryin’ about it isn’t gonna do a damn bit of good either!   _ He raises his hand to his chest, meaning to itch the wound beneath its bandage, only catching the motion at the last moment.  He clenches his fist instead.  

So, what can he do?   _ Who are the ones that are dyin’ _ , he wonders,  _ If they’re the older ones, maybe I’d know ‘em.  Might be able to put faces… or… whatever… to names.   _ He’s sure that to Orsino, and probably everyone in the Inquisition, his boys are interchangeable, hardly discernable from one another.  But to Samson, the shape of a talon, the arch of a crest of crystals, a single eye peeking from a nest of spikes, all that is as individual as the people that these creatures used to be.  He smiles grimly.  That’s what he’ll do.  Next time he sees Orsino, he’ll ask.  He yawns, stifling it with the back of his hand, then sighs, feeling his eyes grow heavy. Next time.  He’ll ask for sure.

* * *

Orsino makes a list of the ones that die. Most of them are Horrors, a few Shadows, too far gone to know their own names. One Knight goes under the knife and doesn’t come back, seizing as Dagna pulls a long shard of lyrium out of his back. This is how they find out that the Red Templars, once cleansed, are completely immune to direct application of mana.

“I don’t understand,” Maxwell whispers, backing away from the Knight fallen still on the table. “I could  _ see _ what was wrong with him, I can do that much, but it’s like the magic just...slid off. I couldn’t...I couldn’t do anything.”

It’s enough to send Dagna into a research binge until Orsino is forced to bring her back to their current task. 

He keeps a list, too, of the survivors. 

 

  * __Leroy, Gertrude. Montsimmard. RT marksman, advanced cryst. along abdomen and spine, pinky finger of left hand removed. Recovery: 1 month.__


  * _Connors, Lucas. South Reach. RT FS. Medium cryst. of chest and neck, some interference with lungs. Recovery: 6 weeks projected, keep eyes for respiratory issues._



 

And on and on. This list is useful to them and the herbalists at the infirmary at least. Within the month they expect to see more Templars brought in from the Wilds, and hopefully the people in recovery now will be strong enough by then to move to the new barracks assigned for them, well away from where the regular soldiers sleep.

Merrill flits in and out, her part in the procedures growing less frequent as meetings eat at her time. She will have to leave next week – called by an issue with the Emerald Graves to which Orsino hardly paid attention – but soon he will be alone with Dagna and Harritt and the blood of every dying Templar he couldn’t save staining his hands a deeper red. He’s exhausted, wrung out from the stress and blood loss and no matter how much meat and elfroot he consumes he knows he will have to stop soon. He’s lucky Merrill hasn’t already sent The Iron Bull down to throw him over his shoulder for a week of enforced rest, if he’s being honest with himself, but Orsino can’t stop; not when there are still so many lives hanging in the balance. 

His only reprieve is the short moments stolen by Samson’s bedside as the man drifts in and out of lucidity. Neither Maxwell nor the other healers make any bones about his presence or even the way he always holds the man’s hand throughout. He’s grateful. Grateful and so, so tired, tired enough he’s tempted to put his head down on Samson’s cot and drift off sometimes; the man’s presence in the room so soothing that even the muffled cries of the Templars in pain wouldn’t be enough to rouse him.

Orsino groans, rubbing the last of his elfroot salve over the ever-clotting cut on his arm before he pulls his gloves back on and stands, looking out the arrow-slit window of his office to see the sky above is already tinged with the colors of sunset. He hasn’t paid Samson a visit yet today.  _ I can go see him, check on Carroll and the others, maybe. Then sleep _ . He sighs at the thought and it stretches into a yawn.  _ Raleigh, then sleep _ .


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for smut in this chapter.

Samson is sitting up in bed today, still weak, but able to read a little, and to listen as Lucas attempts to tell him a joke from his bed across the room.  The young man’s lungs are so fucked he can barely speak, but he keeps attempting it anyway.  “General,” he’d rasped, whooping a great breath after the single word, “I’m… not… dead.”

“Damn right you’re not, son,” he’d told him, and swallowed hard.  “Make sure you say a fuckin’ thank you where it’s needed, alright?  Costs nothing to be polite.”

“Yeah… that’s…” the boy wheezes, “what… Ma… always… said.”

“Sensible woman, your ma,” Samson had laughed, then the movement of the door opening had caught his attention.  As soon as Orsino walks into the room, Samson cannot help but glare at him.  The man is too pale, too thin by half, and he looks fucking exhausted.  Beyond exhausted even  – he looks as if a strong wind will blow him down.  “Hey,” he says as soon as Orsino looks in his direction, “You’ve seen me.  I’m fine.  Go to bed.”

The elf raises an eyebrow. “This from the man Maxwell found trying to walk yesterday? Rather hypocritical of you, Raleigh.”

“Yeah, well, I ain’t arguing,” Samson tells him, “But you look beat to shit.  C’mere.”

Slowly, Orsino approaches his bedside.  Samson reaches out toward him, pulling the exhausted man closer, almost into his bed.  “Look at you,” he murmurs, “This is killing you.  And I thought I was a stubborn bastard.”  He sighs, brushes a loose skein of hair back from Orsino’s forehead gently, puts their foreheads together.  “You stink,” he tells Orsino fondly, “And I bet you haven’t eaten today.  Can’t do much for anyone else if you end up in here with us, now, can you?”

He is so concerned with the pallor of Orsino’s skin, the way his eyes flutter closed when he leans on Samson, that he is not even thinking about anyone else in the room.  Slowly, Orsino nods, and Samson smiles crookedly at him.  “G’won then.  Sleep well, old man.”

Orsino sighs and pulls back, returning Samson’s smile.  Maker, he looks awful.  As Orsino turns, Samson’s expression falls back, his brow furrowing in concern.   _ Bloody hell _ , he thinks,  _ How’m I supposed to look after you, you daft git?  I can’t do anything from in here. _  He sighs, then curses himself for forgetting to ask about the troops who had not survived the process.  As he moves his gaze away from the door, he happens to catch the glance of Lucas, sitting in his own bed, staring aghast across the room at him.  “You…” he rasps, “...and… him?”

Samson snorts, then finds himself at a loss for anything to say.  He wrinkles his nose slightly, then shrugs and tells the boy, “Yeah.  Saved my life.  Saved yours.  Wouldn’t find a braver man anywhere in Thedas.  Got anything more to say?”

Lucas only stares at him, mouth open slightly, then he shakes his head.  “Good,” Samson tells him and sniffs.  Suddenly, he feels uncomfortable under the force of the young man’s gaze, and turns away, fishing under his pillow for a book.  He opens it at random, trying to concentrate on the words.  But his mind keeps envisioning Orsino, the careworn twist of his mouth, the pale lustre of his skin, the deep hollows under each eye.  

* * *

Orsino finds Cullen lurking outside the door to his quarters, so small and tucked out of the way that the Commander’s purpose here can only be for him. Even sluggish as he is, it doesn’t take more than a moment to discern what the topic might be.

“No,” Orsino says before the man can open his mouth. “I’ve just finished  _ three  _ cleansings today, Commander. Whatever you have to say can wait until I’ve slept and bathed.” He moves to brush past the man, but Cullen grips him by the shoulder, halting Orsino in his tracks.

“First...uh, Orsino.” The Commander’s voice is stern, “We really must talk.  I’m not sure if you've heard them, what with your… schedule… but there are some questionable stories making the rounds.  I need you to assure me that they're false.”  Cullen clears his throat, looking suddenly awkward. “Rumors about you and my charge.  Samson.”

Orsino yanks away from the man’s hand, irritation getting the better of him, and smothers a snort.  _ Your charge? _ The thought bites like acid.  _ Have you even been to see him yet? Checked on the other Templars as they recover? It’s been a week. They are your charges only in name _ . “You’re right, I’ve heard no rumors, but I’m sure I have some inkling. Are they in regards to the nature of my relationship with Samson, perhaps?” 

Something shifts in the Commander’s expression; he looks as if he is barely controlling a sneer of disgust.  “So, you do not deny it?  You are… involved?”

“Yes,” he answers simply, any trace of the disdain he feels for the man in front of him carefully wiped from his tone. 

Cullen exhales noisily and and shakes his head.  “I can’t pretend I’m not surprised at you, First Enchanter.  Your actions may put not only yourself, but Samson himself, at risk.  Did you not pause to think about what the repercussions of this might be?”   A tiny frown of confusion flits across Cullen’s features, and once more he shakes his head.  “If I didn’t know Samson better, I would accuse you of fraternisation.  However, I imagine he was probably the one who convinced you to proceed with this…  _ stupidity. _ He can be convincing that way.”  Cullen raises an eyebrow and tells Orsino sternly, “It has to stop.  You have to stop it.”

Orsino stiffens in the face of the sharp words, steel sliding down his spine until he’s drawn up to his full height, still shorter than the Commander. He has no idea what his face looks like, but it’s enough to give the man pause. “The time where you had any say over my actions has long since passed,  _ Knight-Captain _ ,” he hisses. “What is between Samson and I will not affect the Inquisition or its goals, I can guarantee that. If you have a problem with how I conduct myself, you are welcome to take it up with Inquisitor Sabrae.” 

Cullen’s expression darkens considerably.  “I believe I might do that.  As to whether or not it will affect the Inquisition… well.  Only time will tell.  But in the meantime, rest assured, I will be keeping a more watchful eye on you both.  I will give you a week.  But if these rumours persist, then Maker help you.”  Cullen stares at him for a moment, his expression guarded, suspicious. “Do not think that this is over.”

“Oh believe me, I know.” Orsino turns to touch his door, unable to fight a smirk when Cullen jerks in response to flash of the locking array. “Goodnight, Commander Rutherford.” 

With that, he walks through and closes the door.

* * *

Alone he stands, there on the edge of the yard.  He ignores the stares of passersby, the whispers of the little clutter of tradespeople, the more obvious remarks of a clutch of diplomats, picking their way through the muck.  “Alright, Brennan!” Samson raises his voice, scowling with thought. “Let the big guy have a chance, yeah?”

The Qunari laughs at that, the arc of his great ax stalling slightly, giving the tall man an opportunity to roll quickly out of the way.  Samson grins as the Qunari’s lieutenant bays at him from the other side of the circle, berating him for giving up such an easy shot.  “Maker’s Balls, Chief!” the man howls. “Stop pussy-footing around!”

“Yeah,” the Qunari grins, taking a deep breath, resting the head of his ax on the ground.  He leans upon it, eyeing the human still laying in the dirt panting with laughter in his one eye.  “Don’t see it as  _ pussy-footin’ _ , Krem Brulee.  More like…” he shoots an appraising look across the circle to where Samson stands, “givin’ a guy a chance.”

He extends a hand to Brennan, who takes it.  His hand engulfs the human’s, and Samson cannot stifle his grin as the Iron Bull pulls the man to his feet.  As the circle begins to break up, Samson walks slowly across the yard to where the two stand.  “...place for a fighter like you.  Whaddaya say?”

“Dunno,” Brennan tells him, his head lowered.  “I got the Gen… Samson here.”  He pauses, then looks up at Bull.  “I gotta… I mean, I don’t have to ask him.  But I want to.  And… you think your boys’d be alright with it?”

“Sure,” Bull tells him, then looks at Samson, standing just behind Brennan.  “Just offered your guy here a place with my team.  Wanted to see what he thought.”

Samson nods, barely disguising a smile.  He looks at Brennan, studies the man’s expression carefully – the hope behind the scars.  He’d come from the Circle at Tantervale, but was a native of Wycome, and still carried some of that cities permissiveness in his attitudes.  Under the Knight Commander at Tantervale, he’d risen to the rank of Knight Captain, but been demoted for a liaison with one of the Chantry sisters.  That, at least, is the past as far as Samson knows it – what he knows for sure is that Brennan took to the red like a duck to water, that he was one of the first to generate the twin blades of crystal on each arm, one of the first of what would become known as Shadows.  The man is a fearsome fighter, loyal as a dog, with a playful aspect which endears him to his subordinates and superiors alike.  He nods at Bull, and asks Brennan, “So?  What do you think?”

He watches the man swallow nervously, as he reaches up to his mouth to tap his lips with the end of his arm.  It can’t properly be called a hand any longer, as the skin of all his fingers have fused together, but there must be something in there, because he can certainly still grip a sword.   _ Orsino gave you that, _ Samson thinks, and his lips curl slightly, his heart swelling with pride.  “Dunno,” Brennan says thoughtfully, and Samson shakes his head.

“Well, you got my blessing, if that’s what you were fishing for,” he says.  “Go on.  Find out more about it, if you want.  This guy’s obviously smart, if he wants someone like you in his team.”  He sniffs, looking up at Bull.  Bull gazes back, giving him a slight lift of the eyebrow.  Samson shrugs, stuffs his hands in his pockets and nods.  “I’ll be in the Chantry, if you wanna talk about it some more.”

Slowly, he trudges away, through the slush and mud.  The visits to the Chantry are a pain in the arse – Cullen’s idea, of course.  Every day, he spends an hour there, helping Mother Giselle with whatever she needs help with.  Mostly, it seems to be sorting shit – finding out which candles need their wicks refashioned, finding the prayer books which are unreadable because of holes left behind by the silverfish.  At least it’s quiet, apart from that bloody sister who keeps enquiring if perhaps he wouldn’t like to make confession today.   _ Think of your immortal soul _ ! she’d blustered at him last time, and it was all he could do not to laugh in her face.  

_ If you think the Maker is up there, waitin’ and hopin’ for me to make confession so he can finally turn back to the world,  _ he’d told her scornfully,  _ then you’re stupider than I thought _ .  She keeps trying though.  Have to give her that.

He’s been out of the infirmary for three weeks now.  A month it was before he could stand – but by then he’d been sitting up most days, with the list he’d managed to ask Orsino for.  It was hard to write in bed, but he managed as best he could, writing condolences until his hand ached.  He’d asked that healer, the nice kid, Max, if he would mind having them sent to the Chantry in each of the locations, and the man had nodded.  “I have to give them to the Nightingale first,” he’d said ruefully, and Samson had shrugged.

“She wants to read the same letter thirty times, that’s her business,” he’d said glibly, and Maxwell had taken the bundle from him and smiled.  He wonders if any of the letters made it back to families waiting to hear – he hopes so.  Can’t know for sure though, so hope will have to suffice.

He pushes open the heavy oaken door, wrinkling his nose as the waft of beeswax and incense crowds his senses.  He stands just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom.  Then he walks forward, looking for Mother Giselle to find out what his task is for today.  “Oi,” he says loudly, rather enjoying the slightly sacrilegious feeling of shouting into the hush of the holy space. “It’s Raleigh.  I’m here for my…” 

There is a shuffle to his left, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then Orsino appears, looking irritated.  

“Blasted woman,” he mutters, and Samson laughs.

“Hey,” he says quietly, and Orsino looks up at him, astonished.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, frowning, and Samson grins.

“Here for my penitence,” he says, rolling his eyes.  “You know.  Len’s version of sweeping the stables.  I think he’s hoping that I’ll see the error of my ways through careful application of the Chant and being bombarded by stupid questions from well-meaning Mothers.”

Orsino huffs and raises an eyebrow.  “Yeah,” Samson laughs, “that’s how it goes, alright.  Hasn’t worked yet.” He swallows, an idea forming in the back of his mind.  “Hey,” he says again, stepping a little closer to Orsino, there in the warm quiet of the Chantry.  “Dunno how you feel about this, but…” he snorts and looks away.  “Nah.  It’s stupid.”

Orsino shakes his head slightly, then cocks it, curious.  “What is it, Raleigh?”

Samson shifts, moving his weight foot to foot as he feels a surge of adrenaline course through him.  If they were caught… and here… he smirks slightly, rubs his stubbled jawline, thinking,  _ the risk though, that’s what makes it so… so… _ He takes a deep breath, looks around quickly as he thinks,  _ this’d be when bloody old Mother Giselle pops out and tells me I’m gonna be singin’ in the choir next, or His High and Mighty Commandership comes in, that’s the most unsexy fuckin’ thing in the whole world.   _ But then, when nothing happens, he holds out his hand to Orsino and says, heart beating almost in his throat, “This place is full of nooks and crannies.  You wanna come see what kind of use we can put ‘em to?”

* * *

 

Orsino is more than used to carrying out liaisons in dark corners. Mages past the age of majority either hold all their trysts in such spaces – broom closets, a back corner of the library, even the Gallows’ tiny Chantry – or they tend to never lose their virginity at all. The thought of doing such with Samson is exciting, sets his heart racing, but it is also terribly familiar.

The man is looking down at him with lust and a hope that makes Orsino’s throat tighten, because he  _ wants _ , yes, but not quite like this. This isn’t supposed to be some short dalliance, meant to meet the needs of both parties then drift into nothing until the next time they need release. Orsino wants more than that.

“Or,” he says, reaching out to brush along the outside of Samson’s arm, only one layer of cloth between his gloved hand and the man’s skin with the bandages gone, “we could find somewhere with a bed, and at least one guaranteed uninterrupted hour.” Samson’s skin is warm through the fabric under his uncovered finger and thumb, and suddenly Orsino wishes he wasn’t in the habit of wearing his gloves everywhere. 

“Maker, yes,” Samson breathes, and his arm comes out, slowly encircling Orsino’s waist.  His breath comes in short, thick pants, and as he pulls Orsino closer, his other hand moves up to cup Orsino’s jaw, guiding his face up.  But now, he is nervous.  Honestly, he hadn’t thought Orsino would say yes – he’d thought that he’d smile coyly and defer.  And now, their lips are so close.  The heat between them, each breath a distance closed.  But Samson hasn’t told him yet, and he doesn’t know if he can bring himself to do it.   _ Come on _ , he chastises himself,  _ Don’t be so pathetic.  Tell him. _  But… But… “Yes,” he says again, trying to quell his nerves by sounding more resolved, “You got some place in mind?”

Heat washes over his skin with every word, and Orsino knows his face is coloring once more. He swallows, swallows again. Practically pressed against the man, it’s impossible not to notice the movement of every harsh breath. “I do,” he murmurs, a scant centimeter from Samson’s mouth. “My quarters. They’re out of the way, and no one looks for me there.” And thank the Maker for that. The past six weeks have been a trial on his body and his patience, his quarters the closest thing to a haven he can find when everyone seems to have decided that  _ he _ , not Cullen, is the man to go to on any topic related to the Red Templars. 

Samson is pulling him closer, and Orsino capitulates just enough to wrap a hand around the back of the man’s neck and kiss him for one drawn out moment. He leans just far enough away to get the breath back in suddenly empty lungs. “...shall we?”

* * *

 

Samson only nods, wordless.  He allows Orsino to take his hand, to draw him over to the other wall of the Chantry, where Orsino feels against what appears to be solid wood for a while, before they hear a small click, and Orsino smiles.  For an instant, Samson’s stomach drops, his nerves almost bringing a refusal to his lips, and then he lets Orsino draw him down into the dark.

The narrow corridor is close, the air foetid, as if this part of the building is rarely frequented, if at all.  Orsino leads Samson along a twisting path, their steps muffled by thick dust.  As they walk, Samson tries to relax, to somehow quiet the thrumming of his heart.   _ Don’t mess it up, dummy, _ he tells himself fiercely,  _ nothin’ you haven’t done before.  Except this time, with him.  Fuck.   _ He blows out a nervous breath, then grins and raises his eyebrows as Orsino turns to look at him.  “Go slowly,” Orsino tells him quietly, and Samson nods.  There is a short flight of stairs, which in spite of the warning and his renewed caution, Samson manages to trip up slightly.  

“‘M alright,” he mumbles, and Orsino snorts a quick, quiet laugh.

“Calm down,” the elf murmurs, squeezing Samson’s hand tighter. “If you need a light, I can conjure one, but some of the servants might notice it through the cracks in the walls…”

“Nah,” Samson tells him, and grins a little.  The small squeeze of his hand has made him feel a little more confident, and he takes a deep breath.  “I… uh, just… I need to...”

Orsino smiles at him gently when he tapers off, and they continue along a short passage, then through a door which creaks on its hinges.  Samson winces, but Orsino appears not to notice.  Another short corridor, and then Orsino stops in front of a nondescript door and puts his hand to the wood.  There is the white flash of a security array and Orsino opens the door.

The place is almost monkish, bare of decoration.  Not a rug, not a scrap of comfort.  There are a few books, stacked carefully on the desk in the corner, and the narrow bed is neatly made.  Orsino lets go of his hand, gently prising his fingers out of Samson’s grip.  Samson rubs his hands together, grimacing slightly at how clammy his palms have become.  He clears his throat as Orsino walks into the room, standing as if petrified at the doorstep.  Tentatively, Samson takes a step into the room and closes the door behind him. His breath feels as if it is stopped in his lungs, and as Orsino turns to look at him, a small confused smile playing at the corner of his mouth, Samson blurts, “I dunno if I can do this.”

He blows a long breath out and bows his head, clasping his hands in front of him.  “‘Sino,” he begins, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks, even as the blood feels as if it is draining from his face, “there’s… there’s no pretty way to say it, so I’m just… gonna tell you.”  He snorts, glancing up quickly at Orsino then back down again.  “I… since the docks, I… I mean, I don’t even know if you wanna but… aw, piss on it.”  He grits his teeth, feeling almost sick, and tells Orsino, “I can’t get hard any more.  It’s been a long time since…” another snort and he shakes his head at himself, “Since I had anyone to get hard with, but…”  _ Maker damn it, look at him! _ he berates himself, and forces his eyes up to Orsino, expecting to see disgust, disappointment at least.  All he sees is a slightly stunned expression.  He shrugs.  “Dunno if you even want to,” he mutters, and looks down at his feet again.

* * *

There’s a moment of silence but for Orsino’s heart beating hard in his ears, and Samson is looking away again. Orsino says nothing but steps slowly back into the man’s space. He presses one hand against Samson’s chin with just enough pressure that the man finally looks up just enough to meet Orsino’s eyes. “I...I’m here with you, and that’s what I want. What I’ve been wanting, since...perhaps even since you walked out of Redthorne. And Maker, I haven’t wanted anyone in ages, I haven’t been allowed and then there were duties and- Raleigh, even if you do nothing but come to my bed and let me kiss you, I will be ecstatic.”

* * *

 

Samson exhales a breath he was not aware he’d been holding – a gasp which seems so loud in the quiet of the room.   He bites his lip, feels bizarrely like crying and laughs instead.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, “Maker, aw, fuck…” Then his heart is too full for any more words and he bends down, kissing him, breathing hard already.  Their mouths crash together, the long years all in the past now, the ages worth of wanting silently something which seemed no more than a dream.  Samson’s whole body seems on fire with nerves, even as Orsino’s mouth moves on his, even as Orsino chuckles a little into his open mouth as Samson’s hands fumble at his robes.  He stumbles a little as Orsino steps backward, guiding him gently over to the bed, not letting their lips break for a moment.  Samson feels huge, clumsy and awkward against Orsino, his want making him clumsier still.  He groans, feeling Orsino’s fingers lightly against his belly as he lifts the hem of his shirt up, a hand roaming under it, feeling the scars and the soft, tender flesh over his ribs, the thumb rubbing restlessly against his nipple.  “‘Sino,” he mumbles, “please.  Lemme… uh, Maker, you’re so… I… ”  He swallows down the words that rise, knowing it is too soon for that, laughing at himself even as he does it.  “Yeah,” he agrees finally, “Take me to bed.  Lemme touch you.  Please.”

* * *

 

“Yes,” Orsino answers immediately, half through a staggering gasp at the way he can’t stop touching Samson, before with great force of will he yanks his hands out of the other’s tunic. He sinks down to the bed, pulling the man with him until Orsino is seated with Samson bent practically in half over him. Orsino tilts his face up, kisses him again, once against the lips before dragging his mouth to press against his cheek, his stubbled jaw. “Touch me. Anywhere you want.” 

And Samson takes the permission, kneeling in front of him, undoing the buttons on his robes with shaking fingers.  Slowly, almost reverently, he pulls aside the layers of fabric – over the chest, over and off Orsino’s shoulders.  His gaze is restless, his fingers now running lightly over the skin of Orsino’s ribs, his arms, touching each scar and plane of muscle.  He sighs, then looks up at Orsino, face flushed, a tiny smile on his lips.

The sight and sensation are too much. Skin-hunger burns in him and he wants to bury his hands into the man’s hair and drag him close again. Orsino pulls away just for a moment, yanking his gloves off with his teeth and throwing them carelessly aside as he asks, a bit too late: “Maker, Raleigh. Can- can I touch you, too? Wherever you’re comfortable, just…”

“Yeah,” Samson tells him breathlessly, “yeah, please, please.” Orsino’s smile comes unbidden but leaves him breathless and panting. He finishes shrugging off the top half of his robes, immediately reaching out for the hem of Samson’s tunic. The rough-spun white fabric comes off in a smooth motion, Samson lifting his arms obligingly until it slips off over his head and hands. The man’s skin is a patchwork of dark hair, pockmarks, and scars. Orsino finds himself transfixed, staring at the man for a moment before remembering he’s allowed to touch. He runs both hands up Samson’s arms, over his shoulders and down his chest. His finger brushes the man’s nipple and it’s enough to elicit a shiver.  _ Maker… _ he thinks with reverence. And he needs Samson closer to him  _ right now _ . Following his earlier impulse, Orsino threads one hand through Samson’s hair, tugging the man up, closer even as he moves back to lay across the bed. “Come here,” he urges Samson until the man’s knees are pressed against the bed on either side of Orsino’s legs. “Kiss me again.”

* * *

 

Samson finally leans in, bracing his hands on either side of Orsino’s head. For a moment, he just looks at Orsino, wondering at him.  Questions rise like bubbles in his mind, but he knows this is not the time for questions.  He smiles, narrowing his eyes and watching the frustration flit across Orsino’s features.  He can’t help it – his smile widens further.  Slowly, he bends down, until his mouth is only a breath away from Orsino’s, and gently, barely touching, kisses his top lip.  “Like that?” he mutters. “Or…”

Even more slowly, he moves his face to kiss Orsino’s cheek primly, his lips hard and dry against the elf’s soft skin.  He cannot stifle his laughter, and still he moves over Orsino’s body, planting tiny kisses along the outer shell of his ear; fat, open mouthed kisses which mask the faint scrape of teeth against his neck.  Over and over he kisses Orsino, revelling in the freedom to finally do so.  Down the centre of his chest, then arcing back up again, the taste of him all in Samson’s mouth, all he ever wants to taste again.  Curling his tongue over a nipple, he hears the sharp intake of breath, the sigh, and smiles.  He bites gently, just a moment, and feels Orsino stiffen slightly, then he is moving again, kissing and licking down the steps of Orsino’s ribs.  His hands push at the fabric which covers the elf’s hips, bunched there, and Samson moves his mouth over the sweet pliancy of his stomach, kissing him lightly as far as the fabric will allow him to, feeling the ridge of Orsino’s cock beneath it, against his throat.  Slowly, he looks up, sees Orsino’s eyes are open and asks, his voice husky, “Can I?”

* * *

 

Orsino’s hands are shaking.  _ Nerves _ , he thinks distantly, but the sheer amount of arousal overwhelms any further thought processes. Samson looks back at him, half-hooded eyes beckoning for his answer. “Yes,” he gasps, “please, I want…” and Samson’s already hooking his fingers into the ties of his trousers, the light pressure sending bolts of electricity up Orsino’s spine and he  _ aches  _ in a way he hadn’t a moment before. The ties fall away under Samson’s quick hands, and Orsino has to leverage his hips when the man grasps the waistband of smallclothes and trousers alike on both sides and pulls down, off his hips and over his knees, to his feet where Orsino can kick them free as he toes off his boots with the same motion. 

Then he lies back, bare to Samson’s – his lover’s – heavy gaze as it runs over his body from head to toe.

“Bloody Void,” Samson whispers, “you’re fuckin’ beautiful, ‘Sino,” and gently runs the back of his hand over Orsino’s cock. He sucks in a stifled gasp, hand shooting to grip the wrist Samson’s using to hold himself upright against the bed; Orsino’s anchor point against the onslaught of sensation. No one’s touched him in years and never… never with this much care. 

The hand circles him then, gently stroking up and down his length until Orsino can only close his eyes and buck into it. “Fuck,” he pants, then immediately bites his tongue, embarrassed when Samson chuckles. 

“Don’t think I’ve ever heard you say anything like that,” he says, the smile evident in his voice.

“Then you...haven’t been paying attention.” Orsino isn’t paying much attention to his own words either, not when his whole body feels taut as a bowstring and Samson is dragging the pad of his thumb over the head of his cock. 

“I been payin’ attention,” Samson tells him, caressing the smooth silk of Orsino’s cock, the foreskin pulling back from the head as he does so.  “Just to other stuff, that’s all.”  He shifts a little, making himself more comfortable, and moves his hand to blow a gentle breath over the darkening flesh of Orsino’s hardened cock.  The elf groans and, smiling, Samson does it again.  He watches as Orsino’s eyes drop closed, a look almost like one of pain crossing his features as he tightens his fingers in the coverlet.  “Y’alright?” Samson asks tentatively, and Orsino nods quickly.  Samson shifts again, moving up slightly and hovers his lips over the head of Orsino’s cock, then without further ado, puts his mouth around it and sucks gently.

* * *

 

Orsino’s groan of pleasure makes his heart swell, makes his whole body seem to glow from some inner fire. He works his hand up and down along the shaft, still sucking, varying the force with which he does it, moving his tongue against the head.   There is that smell of copper in Orsino’s skin, bright, almost shocking, but the taste of him, Maker, he even tastes beautiful; salt and sweat and lyrium and elfroot, something brittle and perfect.   _ Like magic, _ Samson thinks, and smiles slightly.  Orsino’s hands go to his hair again, and again he moans, something that sounds like a mumbled curse as Samson takes him deeper, his nose pushing flat against Orsino’s stomach.  He moves his hand and his head, Orsino’s grip not tight enough to constrain his movements, and feels the other man shudder, his hips stutter to movement beneath him.   _ Do it, _ he thinks,  _ fuck my mouth, I want you to _ .  He feels pleasure crawl over his skin, almost like a chill, feels the muscles in his thighs hitch as the adrenaline blazes through him, the taste of Orsino the only thing that matters, the weight of him in his mouth, the way they move together.  Orsino hisses in a breath, gives a short moan, high and desperate, and his hips rise and fall again and again, Samson opening his throat, allowing him deeper with every thrust.  Maker, how he’s wanted this, wanted it for so long, so many restless nights spent dreaming of what might be.  And now it’s here, this beautiful man, this beautiful, brave,  _ kind _ man, and he feels the sting of tears close as Orsino’s fingers tighten in his hair, as one hand moves around to his jaw and tries to pull him away.

“Ra...Raleigh....” the elf warns him, his voice little more than a croak. “I’m… please…”

Samson huffs a breath through his nose and shakes his head minutely, moving faster now.  Orsino gasps, the muscles of his thigh tight under Samson’s hand, the head of his cock brushing repeatedly against Samson’s soft palette.  He breathes harder, feeling the moment tighten around them, enveloping them, and that taste, that gorgeous taste, it’s there, Maker, Orsino gives a short cry, the hands in Samson’s hair pulling tighter as his hips buck again and again, as he spills into Samson’s mouth, down his throat.  Samson swallows on reflex, the bitter, sharp smell of copper in his mouth and nose now, feeling happier than he has in… how long?   _ Maybe ever, _ he thinks, and gives the cock in his mouth a small, sly suck.  Orsino’s fingernails scrape over his scalp as the elf pulls his hair gently, and he sighs as Samson pulls his mouth slowly away while keeping his hand in place.  Samson takes a deep breath, feeling dazed, and grins at Orsino, who still has his eyes closed, one hand now gone to his forehead.  “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and smiles again.


	7. Chapter 7

Orsino runs a hand from his forehead down his face, trying to encompass the sheer bliss that continues to roll over him like warm waves against an Antivan shore. Every muscle in his body is slack with satisfaction but for his heart, still thumping away madly in his chest. In an effort to regain some control of himself, Orsino opens his eyes and looks to Samson. The man grins down at him, eyes warm and hair sticking up every which way from Orsino’s grip on it. There’s a softness in his gaze Orsino’s never seen before. It’s too good, too lovely a sight, and his eyes snap shut again even as an answering smile curves his mouth. The time for realizations has long-since passed, but Orsino is struck again by just how deeply he’s come to care for this man – his brash humor, his sharp tongue, his terrible handwriting – even if he isn’t ready to say it aloud yet.

“‘Sino,” Samson murmurs, leaning over him again, and Orsino takes the opportunity to open his eyes, grabbing the man by the shoulder and hair, hooking his legs around his waist with just enough leverage to push him to the side and lengthwise onto the bed. Samson is pliant under his hands, rolling onto his back with a sharp  _ oof _ even as Orsino settles over his waist. “Whoa, what-” but Orsino cuts him off when he leans forward, pressing their bare torsos together and stretching just enough to kiss him hard. He can taste himself in Samson’s mouth, mixed in with the man’s own iron and the mineral tang of lyrium that never quite goes away. Orsino groans, still riding out post-orgasmic ecstasy that bubbles up again as hands skim up and down his back, still-rough callouses leaving trails of fire on his skin. He presses closer, doing his level best to plaster every inch of his body to every part of Samson he can reach.

Doing so presses Orsino’s backside to Samson’s groin, making the man’s confession earlier obvious in the lack of hardness rising to meet him.  _ No matter _ , Orsino tells himself as he slides his mouth from Samson’s down to the man’s jawline, biting gently where it meets his neck and the man groans, shuddering underneath him. His lover’s pleasure is evident when Orsino puts enough space between them to run his hands down Samson’s chest, exploring the dip of pectorals into breastbone and adding more pressure when Samson’s hands settle on Orsino’s hips, pulling his weight down harder. He runs a finger over the edge of the surgery scar down the center of Samson’s chest, dragging his fingernail lightly over new, pink skin when Samson gasps his name. 

When he meets the man’s gaze again Samson’s head is thrown back, neck exposed and eyes almost completely shut but for the hint of red and brown that peeks from his eyelashes. The picture presented is so striking Orsino makes himself sit up just to get a full view of it. Samson, still too pale and thin from where the red ate at his muscles but gaining back some of it now, covered in scars that vary from the deep, angry mark of a wound once-infected to the barely-visible white crescent along his hairline. He looks strong, not in the manner typically brought to mind by the word, but strength characterized with ragged tenacity and the knowledge that as many blows as life threw at him, the man would endure and get back up again.  _ Beautiful _ , Samson called him moments ago. Orsino can only look down at the person under him and find that the word is not enough for all this man encompasses. 

He smiles, plucks Samson’s hand from where it rests on his hip and Orsino presses a kiss to his knuckles. 

_ Breathtaking. That’s a better word.  _

* * *

Samson pants, open-mouthed, the heat of Orsino’s body astride him all that there is in the world.  Distantly, he knows the feel of Orsino’s lips on his knuckles, but this deep, wide feeling between his hips, where the weight of Orsino rests so perfectly against him, that is where his mind focuses, that is what he feels.  Restlessly, he shifts, arching his hips up, feeling the prickle of shame at his softness as something far off, hazy on the horizon of his mind.  Ah but this desire, it is a huge thing, his hand twists in Orsino’s, resting against the elf’s cheek, feels the smile there and groans.  Wordless, his breath coming harder now as he thrusts, powerless under the spell of it, head arched backward, his fingers tightening against the skin of Orsino’s hip, his mouth still full of the taste of him.  That chill spirals out from his core again, he is aware of Orsino’s gaze, and then the elf mutters, “Raleigh.”

His mouth drops open still further, hips still working their restless rhythm, unaware of the short, sweet gasps he makes.  Samson chases the pleasure he feels here, it consumes him, overwhelms him, in the moment but not of it – it began long ago, standing at the gates of Redthorne, or even before that, watching this man, this  _ incredible man _ , all those years ago in the Gallows, that hateful place, seeing his courage and the way even his presence could inspire those around him, and Samson’s grip stiffens, every muscle, his whole body feels so tightly wound, and he cries out, arching his torso up as he comes against Orsino, a brief moment of clarity, of brilliant blinding light.

All too soon, he slits his eyes open and snorts a laugh, unable to keep the grin off his face,  “You,” he croaks, then clears his throat and swallows, feeling the hitch in the muscles in his abdomen, his thighs. “You bastard.  I’ve only got two pairs of pants.”  He chuckles a little, feels the stupid grin on his face widen, and strokes his thumb over Orsino’s lips gently.  “Bloody Void,” he says, feeling his flesh shiver in the afterglow. “That was…” Then he sighs and shakes his head.  There are no words for how he feels right now.  Wanted.  Hopeful.  Strong.  It is all of those, and more.  He blinks sleepily at Orsino, who smiles at him gently, as Samson pushes himself up slightly, leaning back on his elbows as he continues to gaze up at Orsino.  “I wanna stay here forever,” he murmurs. “You think that’d be alright?  I don’t take up much space.”  He chuckles again. “And I don’t stink too much.  Usually.”

* * *

Orsino’s snort at the quip turns into a full laugh without permission from his brain, and he curls forward to wrap his arms around the man’s neck and press their foreheads together. “I want you to stay, too,” he manages between a low chuckle, “but I don’t have a cupboard big enough to secret you away in, and the Commander is going to come looking eventually.”

“Aw, piss on  _ that _ idea,” Samson groans, pulling Orsino with him as he falls back against the bed. “You sure know how to ruin a moment, old man.”  He grins. “You’ll have to make it up to me.”

Orsino angles his head to kiss him, the task made somewhat difficult by the way he can’t stop smiling long enough to properly pucker his lips. “I wouldn’t be averse to doing this again, as often as our schedules allow.”

“Oh, he wouldn’t be  _ averse _ , he says.  When his  _ schedule allows _ , he says.  Well, I’m so glad I met your expectations.” Samson rolls his eyes, bringing a hand to the back of his head to catch his mouth properly, this time. Orsino melts into the contact with a low moan of approval. When they finally break the kiss, he tucks his face between the man’s neck and his own arm, taking a moment to breathe through sheer giddiness. The nervous shaking from earlier has long-since passed, soothed away by their shared pleasure and the way Samson continues to run hands up and down his back from hairline to tailbone, as if he can’t get enough of touching.

Samson mutters something he can’t quite hear, even with his ear next to the man’s face. “Hmm?” he inquires.

* * *

“Nothin’,” Samson murmurs, and sighs.  “Just thinkin’ aloud, that’s all.”  He smooths his hands along Orsino’s back, relishing the feel of his flesh, warm and living and so close, so very close.  He hates to be the one to ruin the moment; but time is not on their side, and he knows he will be looked for.  Samson sighs again.  “‘Sino,” he begins, “I…”

 

But he cuts himself off, not wanting to leave.   _ Why can’t they just let us alone? _ he thinks petulantly, and shakes his head at himself.   _ Because you’re a fucking war criminal, you arse, _ he tells himself,  _ And because Cullen clings to a grudge like a Minanter pike.   _ He snorts quietly, clears his throat and shifts a little, noting how Orsino’s breathing has evened out, how his whole body has relaxed.  “‘Sino,” he says again quietly, smiling gently, “C’mon.  Don’t fall asleep now.  We… we gotta get up.  I’m meant to be in the Chantry.  And I know we joked about it, but I really  _ do not _ want ol’ Cullen finding us here.”  He squeezes Orsino to him, feeling a weight in his chest, the weight of reality pressing in around them.  “C’mon,” he says again gently, straining up to kiss Orsino’s temple. “Sooner we get goin’, sooner we can do this again.”  Orsino moves slowly against him, and Samson feels a slow roil of desire bloom within him.  He moves his hand gently, stroking one last time along Orsino’s back, looking up into his deep green eyes to smirk.  “One more kiss, huh?  I gotta deal with Chantry bints after this, it’ll help me keep my strength up.”

* * *

Orsino groans with discontent at the mere thought of moving, but finally levers himself up a bit more to drop a kiss on Samson’s cheek. The man wrinkles his nose and Orsino laughs. “Turnabout is fair play,” he says, but lets their lips meet without a fight. They kiss languidly for another minute as Orsino revels in Samson’s warmth and the peace still trying to drag him into lethargy. He sighs into the other’s mouth as he pulls away, sliding to the side off Samson’s body onto the edge of the bed and wincing when the man’s trousers peel off his bare thighs and backside. There’s a dark stain only just beginning to show through the fabric, the sight tempting Orsino to reach out, press his hand against Samson’s flaccid cock and see if he can wring another unexpected, delightful orgasm out of him. He refrains, just barely, swinging his legs to the floor instead. More than a few of his joints crack when Orsino makes himself stand, stretching his knees as they protest being folded up so long sitting astride the man’s body. The entirety of him aches with satisfaction, with that simmering warmth of happiness left behind now the flames of his lust died have down. 

“No doubt it’s been more than an hour,” he sighs to himself, turning to look back to Samson. The man is sitting up now but makes no move to stand, just looking at him with that soft smile again that makes his stomach squirm. Orsino cocks his head, that damnable flush rising in his face again despite everything. “...yes?”

* * *

“No crime in lookin’, last time I checked,” Samson grins.  He rises slowly, wrinkling his nose at the feel of the come in his pants, looking down at the mess with a frown.  Looking around the room, he thinks – Orsino’s clothing is far too small and far too…  _ Orsino _ for them to simply swap. Absentmindedly, he picks up his shirt and throws it on, casting his eyes over the room, looking for inspiration.  He spies an ewer and basin on a tiny shelf, and walks over to it, grinning when he sees that the ewer is still half full.  “You mind?” he asks, looking back at Orsino as he gestures to the plain pitcher, and Orsino shakes his head, obviously confused.  Samson hefts the ewer by its handle, then slowly pours the water from the ewer onto his shirt, over his stomach.  “Not the greatest excuse,” he murmurs, “But if anyone asks, I’ll tell ‘em I spilt a mug of milk-and-water on myself.”  The water has soaked through the thin, rough-spun cotton, and down, onto Samson’s lap, completely obscuring the other stain.  He looks up at Orsino and shrugs, “Better than nothing.  Better than the truth.”

 

He sighs, feeling rather sad that he can’t just tell anyone who asks that Orsino just made him come in his pants like a kid; well, it’s not that he  _ can’t _ tell them.  But it’s not safe for either of them to have too many people know – not when their positions are both so tenuous.  From what Cullen has let slip, and from other things that he’s heard in passing, Orsino’s presence is tolerated at best, and mostly for the benefit of the elven Inquisitor – what was her name again?  Merry?   _ Something like that _ , Samson thinks to himself, then smiles at Orsino, begins walking toward him.  That sweet blush still clings to the tips of his ears, his eyes luminous, his brow with a faint sheen upon it.  Samson sighs, cups Orsino’s jaw and tilts his head gently upward.  Slowly, he rubs his thumb over the curve of Orsino’s bottom lip, watching his eyes flutter closed.  “I love lookin’ at you,” he tells him softly. “I could do it forever.”  There is a moment which feels caught in amber, a shining time where they are the only ones in the universe, and then Samson sighs again.  “Better get back to it,” he says, then frowns slightly.  “Hey – what were you doing in the Chantry anyway?  When you came out you said  _ bloody woman _ or something, like you’d been talking to Giselle?”

“Are you stalling, Raleigh?” Orsino asks, his eyes narrowing slightly, his hands going to Samson’s waist, pressing up against the wetness of his shirt and pants with a frankness which makes Samson swallow hard.  

“No,” he says, and grins, “If I were stallin’, I’d do this.”  He moves forward, lips parted slightly, close enough that he can feel Orsino’s sharp exhale across his skin.  He stays there, a heartbeat apart, then kisses Orsino, lips soft, his hand automatically going to Orsino’s hair, stroking it gently.  Maker, it feels so good, so right; the way they move together, the luscious taste of him, the wet slip of their tongues against one another, the delicate slide of teeth.  Reluctantly, Samson pulls back and grins, arching an eyebrow.  “That’s professional level stallin’.  Now, tell me about the  _ bloody woman _ .”

* * *

He scoffs. “That  _ bloody woman _ called me in for a meeting under the assumption that, as a mage raised in the Circle, I must be a devout Andrastian with Canticle of Transfigurations spilling out my ears.” Orsino pulls back from where he’s started to lean into Samson a little, the wet material of his tunic cold against bare skin. “You can imagine how taken aback I was when she started in on how I, as someone with influence over our dear Inquisitor, should ask her to stop proclaiming her belief in the elven Creators to all and sundry, or at least stop having debates over the existence of the Maker with Cassandra in the middle of the courtyard.”

Samson sneers and raises an eyebrow.  Then he narrows his eyes and smiles nastily. “You told her where to shove it?”

Orsino’s lips curl into a wicked grin. “You’ll be happy to hear that I asked her why an atheist would have any influence on such a...holy person’s religious beliefs, as that should be  _ her _ job. Apparently after the third time, Merrill asked her to kindly drop the issue. She’s been much colder to the Mother since she came back from Redcliffe with Dorian.”

Samson merely snorts, his interest in the topic obviously waning even as he stays focused on Orsino’s face. He stands on his tiptoes again to kiss the man without touching his sodden front. Samson tries to turn it into something more lingering, but Orsino forces himself to pull away before that can happen. “I think it’s time I got dressed, and much as I appreciate your stalling tactics, the Mother is probably wondering where you’ve gotten off to.” 

* * *

He has to physically bite his tongue to stop the retort which rises to his lips almost without thought.  Orsino seems to know exactly what he’s thinking – something along the lines of  _ the Mother’s probably wondering who I got off with, more like _ – and watches him for a while, almost as if he is waiting for it.  Instead, Samson arches an eyebrow and shrugs, then half-smiles at Orsino as he reaches out to run his hand over the smooth, naked flesh of Orsino’s shoulder.  He feels that shiver roll through him again, prickling up the backs of his arms, making him grind his teeth together, turning his grin wolfish as his eyes narrow.  “‘Sino,” he growls, wanting to take the man in his arms again, to kiss him one more time and take him back to bed.  He takes a deep breath instead, draws his hand down Orsino’s arm and lifts his hand, kissing the knuckles gently.  “Better go.” He smiles ruefully over Orsino’s hand.  He releases his grip and turns, striding toward the door.

 

He closes it gently behind him and sighs, reaching his hand up to rub his mouth.  Still, Orsino’s scent lingers on his fingers, and he smiles a little, looking first one direction then the other.  He thinks he knows where this is – just up the corridor, up three flights of stairs and he’ll find himself in the Great Hall.  He thinks.   _ Can’t go back the way you came,  _ he chides himself,  _ And no, you can’t go back in to ask ‘Sino.  You do that, you’ll never want to leave.  _  He sighs, thinking  _ You’re not finding it standing here _ , and starts walking.

 

Samson makes it to the Chantry to find two people standing in the nave, waiting for him.  Cullen folds his arms over his chest when he sees Samson, and Samson tries to look suitably contrite.  “Forgot,” he says glumly.

“You  _ forgot _ ,” Cullen says as Mother Giselle clucks. “Samson, give me one good reason why I shouldn’t throw you in the stocks.  And  _ look  _ at you.  What have you been doing?”

“Spilt my drink,” Samson tells them, wrinkling his nose as Cullen glares at him.  They stare at each other for a long moment, and Samson cocks his head thoughtfully, wondering if that is just a flicker of…  _ something _ … there in the Commander’s eye.  They’d been close once.  But long before this mess, they’d chosen sides, and those sides did not see eye to eye.  Stands to reason they’d be opposed to each other even now.  

 

Samson sniffs and raises his eyebrows at Mother Giselle, “So?  I’m here now.  What’ve you got for me today?”

Mother Giselle begins to speak, but Cullen quickly overrides her.  “I heard that Bull offered one of your… one of the Reds… a place on the Chargers.  Brennan.  I heard that you had endorsed him.  What the  _ fuck _ were you thinking, Raleigh?”

Samson draws himself up to his full height, raising his chin.  “I was thinkin’,  _ Commander, _ that a life as a mercenary, servin’ under someone who obviously gives a shit for his men, that’d be better than fuckin’ about around here.  What the fuck was I thinkin’? I should ask you the same question.  What in the Void did you save us for if you weren’t gonna give us anything to  _ do _ ?”  His fists are clenched at his sides, and he feels rage boil within him, helpless and almost pitiable.  Samson snorts, takes a step closer to Cullen, who seems paler than before, hectic colour rising to his cheeks.  

“It was never my wish to save you, Samson.  Any of you.  If I had my way, you’d be dead for your crimes – I thought I made that perfectly…”

Samson sneers, Mother Giselle’s appalled expression in the corner of his vision.  Grimly, he delights at her reaction, but he reserves his ire for Cullen.  “Yeah, yeah.  Well, tough shit, because now we’re your responsibility.  And you better start takin’ some responsibility for us,  _ Knight-Captain _ , because it’s wearing Orsino ragged.  We could be useful; you know it, I know it, this Bull knows it.  Come on.  Use your fuckin’ head for once.”

 

Cullen’s mouth twists.  “Orsino,” he breathes, then looks at Samson.   _ Piss on it, _ Samson thinks,  _  shouldn’t have said that _ .  But almost as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Cullen shakes his head.  A strange look flits over his features, then he turns to Mother Giselle.  “Revered Mother, my apologies.  Samson will no longer be at your disposal.  I will find someone else to replace him, if you wish.”

“No need, my son,” the Mother purrs, smiling beatifically. “He was not much use anyway.”  She chuckles as she looks at Samson, and effects a small shrug, “Though you did provide Sister Dorothea many hours of anguish over your soul.  I think she rather enjoyed your… debates.”

Samson grunts.  Cullen nods to the Revered Mother, who inclines her head at them both – then Cullen takes Samson’s arm in a firm grip and pulls him out of the Chantry and out into the yard again.

* * *

Orsino rolls his shoulders, moving his book over a little so the late afternoon light can illuminate the cramped runes. He has the rest of the day – what’s left of it – set aside for research. The issue of the magic-null Red Templars looms over him like a thundercloud. What is it that causes this? Something to do with the cleansing, not the red lyrium itself, they’ve found from experimentation. Other than that, any reason for the strange phenomena is completely up in the air. The text he reads now is a copy of a treatise on lyrium, sent to Redthorne from Orzammar’s Shaperate in exchange for some of the runework schematics pioneered by Dagna and Redthorne’s Tranquil. He is very, very lucky to have access to such a resource – many scholars would kill for even a glance at some of the Shaperate’s texts – but Orsino can’t find it in himself to concentrate on the words at all. 

He keeps getting lost in thoughts of Samson’s hands in his hair, the way he shuddered under Orsino’s touch, the taste of his skin at the neck and how much he wants to kiss his way up the man’s thighs next, to bury his face at their apex and see if he can bring Samson to his peak with his mouth alone-

A knock on the door startles him out of the fantasy and Orsino straightens in his seat, clearing his throat. “Come in!” 

The person that comes through the door is equally as startling as the knock had been. “Orsino, right? Got any time to chat?” the Tal-Vashoth asks, leaning in the door as casually as such a hulking figure can manage. Orsino blinks, but nods, gesturing at the seldom-used chair across the desk from him. Bull doesn’t hesitate for a moment, closing the door and sinking back into the chair even when it creaks dangerously under his bulk. 

“What can I help you with, The Iron Bull?” Orsino asks, noting the surprise at the use of the article flash for less than a moment in the man’s eye before he turns to mark his place in the book, closing it. 

“Been meaning to talk to you, ‘bout the Red Templars. Cullen’s in charge of them, yeah, but you’re the one who’s working with them the most. Doing that...blood magic crap... and you visit the infirmary a lot for someone who’s got other stuff to be working on.” Bull looks at him with a sharp eye, but none of what he says is really surprising, or gets to the meat of what the man is here for. Orsino raises an eyebrow in question and the other grunts. “I’ve got an... interest in one of the Reds; got my eye on a couple of others, too.”

This time both Orsino’s eyebrows shoot up. “For recruitment?”

“For the Chargers, yeah. And I’m sure the Boss’ll be fine with it, considering how soft she’s been on the Reds in the first place; if I can vet ‘em it’ll pass with the boys. But there are a few things I need to know before that.”

Orsino sits back, a little perplexed, but from what he knows of the Iron Bull’s reputation and the few times he’s observed the Qunari sparring or interacting with the other companions, this doesn’t seem like the type of thing he would lie about. He gives it another moment’s consideration before he nods. “I’ll tell you what I can, within reason. Some details may be up to the persons themselves, or Samson as their leader, to disclose.” 

“Samson, not Cullen, huh?” Bull says with a teasing grin. It’s not a question, just a prod to get him to divulge a little more information.

“You came to me instead of the Commander for a reason. What do you need to know?”

Bull lets the smile slip, business-like in the space of a moment. “I need health reports, when they’ll be fit for duty; how they get along with mages in the Inquisition, stuff like that.”

Orsino sighs. “You’ll have to be careful with this – some of them joined Corypheus only because they were given free reign to act on their prejudice towards mages, I hope you’re aware.”

“Oh yeah, that was pretty obvious,” Bull deadpans.

“Good. Tell me who you’re looking at and I’ll see what I can find on them.”

* * *

“Maker’s Ball’s, Cullen, you don’t have to..!”

But Cullen only wrenches Samson’s arm harder, the iron grip in the crook of his elbow almost painful.  Quickly, they move across the courtyard, but instead of moving to the east, as Samson expects them to do, Cullen hauls him more in a northeasterly direction, away from the tower in which Cullen’s own quarters stand.  Samson looks at him, puzzled, boots sliding in the slush, notes the stubbornness on those features, and internally shrugs.  Whatever Cullen has to show him, he’ll weather it.  If it means that his boys can be useful again.

 

There are sentries outside the door to the tower, which seems odd to Samson – he’s never noticed them in any other places he’s been to, apart from the guards posted to the dungeons, where he is still kept.  Cullen nods to the two men, who nod back and stand aside, allowing Cullen to open the door to the tower’s middle level and pull Samson into the warm hush beyond.

 

The space is well lit, and smells of vellum and ink.  There is low laughter from the upper level, the central part of the tower open – as Samson looks up into the interior, he sees curious faces peering down over the balustrade at the new arrivals, a susurrus of whispers from over at the desks to their left.  He glances in that direction, frowning in confusion, and sees two young people staring at him, their lips open slightly, before one turns to the other and they whisper behind their cupped hands.  Slowly, Cullen takes him deeper into the space, walking to the right of the door.  The light intensifies for a moment, and Samson glances at it, then smiles slightly – it is a mage light – but as soon as the older man conjuring it notices his glance, he clenches his fist, extinguishing the light.  As they pass, the man lowers his chin, staring belligerently at the two of them as they walk deeper into the interior.

 

“This is the mage tower,” Cullen murmurs.  “After Redcliffe, after the Inquisitor decided to align the cause with that of the rebelling mages, rather than with the Order, we had… refugees?  Pilgrims?  I’m not sure what you’d call them, but they were showing up here, seeking refuge from the fighting.  And when Fiona, the Grand Enchanter, I’m not sure if you…”

“I know who Fiona is,” Samson growls. “Fuck the Divine, right?”

“Right,” Cullen says after a pause.  “I brought you here because I don’t think you realise what you’ve done to these people.  By siding with Corypheus, you gave a lien to the worst excesses of the Order.  You encouraged abuses of the worst stripe with your actions.  You legitimized the most repugnant instincts of the sort of Templar who…”

“Who you nearly became,” Samson hisses back viciously.  “I  _ know _ what you did in Fereldan, Cullen – remember?  You told me yourself.  So don’t bring me in here, parading this misery like you had nothing to do with it….”

 

Cullen sneers, and makes a chopping gesture the air with his gloved hand.  “My past has nothing to do with this.  This is your work,  _ General _ , and I would suggest that it might be pertinent for you to remember these people when you walk through the yard, when you have your men use their reclaimed strength to continue on with their lives.”  

Samson feels absurdly close to tears, the rage welling up inside him like bile.  Without realising exactly what he is doing, he finds his hands outstretched, the fingers gripping tightly into the fur of Cullen’s pauldron, using the surprise and the leverage of his sudden movement to push Cullen hard, backwards, swinging him around and into the balustrade.  There is a sharp gasp and a short exclamation, an order and a running of feet, but Samson hears none of it.  “You fucking cocksucking bastard,” he chokes out, body pressed into Cullen’s, the surprise on his face comical if the situation wasn’t so Maker damned awful.  “You bastard.  You got the nerve to tell me about  _ reclaimed strength  _ and  _ continuing on with our lives _ ?  You  _ left us _ .  You left kids like Paulson and Mettick and Cox and Wilson, you left all of us to rot!  Like you give a shit what happens to any of us now!  After that fucking bastard Lord Seeker called us home, you think that we were gonna be… fuck, like that was gonna change anything?  You thought it’d all be fine, that the rest of us wouldn’t fall into the cracks that people like you left behind? Huh?”  He shakes Cullen, hard enough to hear his teeth rattle, not even feeling Cullen’s short nails digging into the meat of his forearms.  “You disgust me.”

 

Cullen’s lips pull back from his teeth, and he grins humourlessly at Samson.  “That makes two of us then.  I will be speaking to the Inquisitor about relieving me of your stewardship; Orsino is widely regarded as the expert on both you and your men, and since you two seem to be intent on pursuing this…  _ liaison _ to its inevitable conclusion, then I will suggest that he take over.  Maker help you...”

“The Maker helps those that help themselves, Commander,” a voice says from over Samson’s shoulder, and he cannot help it, he feels hope bloom in his chest at the sound of it.  Although on the surface, the voice is dry, almost bored sounding, there is something within it which seems to tremble on the edge of some great, abyssal anger.  “Now if you will kindly release Samson?  And will somebody tell me what in the Void is going on here?”

* * *

Orsino and Bull are half-way through curating his notes on the Red Templars who would be best suited to join the Chargers when the sound of running feet coming up the corridor interrupts them. He looks up just as a young mage with wild red hair comes bursting through the door. 

“F-First Enchanter, come quick!” the man pants. “There’s something happening in the mage tower.” Orsino shoots out of his chair, barely paying attention to how Bull’s scrapes across the stone when he, too, stands. 

“Connor, is it?” he asks, already striding out the door. The young man nods and follows at his heels. “Tell me what’s going on. Has someone lost control?”

“N-no, ser. The-the Commander brought the Red General, er, Samson into the tower, but they had some sort of argument. Samson pushed the Commander, and Elise told me to fetch you before any mages got too nervous and blew something up.” 

He sucks in a sharp breath, quickening his pace.  _ Damn it, Raleigh, can’t you even stay out of trouble for an hour? _ But no, the man can’t, at least when it comes to the Commander. Orsino’s seen enough of their sniping interactions to know there’s something between them that still festers to this day, couched in deep-seated anger.  _ At least Elise is there _ , he tries to tell himself,  _ she’ll take care of anything before it can get too out of control _ . Although the Tranquil lacks any magic or Templar powers, her former Templar training ensures she can handle most incidents and the mages are accepting, if not totally comfortable with her as an in-tower guard. 

Still, anger starts to rise unbidden. It expands, swallowing him like a wildfire as Orsino races through the tower door just in time to catch the tail end of Samson’s words and hear Cullen’s reply. “The Maker helps those that help themselves, Commander,” he drawls, rounding the corner. Samson, indeed, has the Commander pushed up against the high railing, but Orsino’s eyes zero on the way Cullen’s hands dig into his arms hard enough that bruises are inevitable, and Orsino wouldn’t be surprised to find bloody crescents on them later. He’s aware of Bull coming to stand behind him, now one of many who just had the rumor confirmed for them. “Now if you will kindly release Samson. And somebody tell me what in the Void is going on here?” he manages to say through the ire swirling, storm-like, in his chest. Movement from a corner catches his eye as the mages part and Elise, decked in Redthorne light armor and hand on her dagger, steps forward. 

She casts her flat gaze over Samson and Cullen as the latter slowly pries his fingers away from the former’s arms and Samson takes a step away, then another. “First Enchanter. The Commander brought General Samson here. They had an argument, and the General pushed the Commander against the railing. If you wish to know the specifics, others were closer than I and able to hear better, but I believe you are involved.”

“No shit,” Bull says, and even without looking at him Orsino can hear the laughter in his voice. 

 

“Of course he’s involved,” Cullen says coldly, and clenches his fists at his side, then flexes the fingers out again.  He sighs, narrowing his eyes at Orsino, then straightens.  “First Enchanter, I…”

“He wants to wash his hands of us,” Samson growls, his arms folded over his chest, his shoulders hunched.  “Wants to hand responsibility for all the Reds over to you.”  He snorts in disgust and glares at Cullen. “As if Orsino doesn’t have enough to do.”

“So,  _ Raleigh _ ,” Cullen says, and his voice is so awful, so bitter that it takes Orsino back a little to hear it. “Is it love?  It certainly sounds like it.”

 

Samson exhales noisily through his nose; his expression, dark before, becomes a mask of fury.  “You leave that…” he begins, but Orsino cuts him off with a gesture. The anger boiling in him has become a white-hot knot of luminescent rage in his gut, but he’s had decades of experience pushing down his impulses toward destruction, to set offenders on fire or just verbally rip them to pieces. He cannot do it here, not now, in front of all these people who are part and parcel of an Inquisition that must remain united until Corypheus is vanquished. 

“Don’t. I am an ally of the Inquisition, yes, but ultimately I am an agent of Redthorne and we have our own agenda: one that does not include taking on the Red Templars as wards of the free mages. The Inquisitor is the only one with the authority to designate someone else as a handler, as you well know, Commander. As for the other issue,” he turns to look Cullen directly in the eye, ignoring the curious ears all around, “we’ve discussed this matter before, and as I already stated, unless the Inquisitor herself takes issue with Samson and I, our private lives are not yours to air like dirty laundry.” He gestures at the gathered crowd.  And then his gaze falls on Samson, standing there with his eyes on the ground, a peculiar expression on his face.

* * *

Suddenly, Samson looks up at him and smiles.  But this smile is so rueful, so sad and bitter that Orsino frowns.  “So you don’t want us either,” the man murmurs, then snorts a humourless laugh, his mouth twisting quickly, even as his shoulders hunch further.  He shakes his head quickly, and appears to take a deep, steadying breath.  “S’alright.  But… I know neither of you got any cause to love us, alright?  I know it.  But… instead of shunting us around, without any say in… in our future…”  He pauses, and his shoulders slump, his gaze returning to the ground.  Finally, he mutters, “I wanna talk to the Inquisitor.”

_ Fuck _ . It’s like having Winter’s Grasp cast on him, all Orsino’s anger flickering out as if snuffed by ice.  _ Of course I want you. I want any of the men who are willing to work with us. But it’s not my place- _ he can’t say any of the things he wants, because Samson looks forlorn and they have an audience of eager onlookers that will proceed to spread and exaggerate any word that drops from his lips. No matter how much he wishes to cross the space between them, to hold on to Samson and reassure him that he still wants what they have, he can’t. Not now.

* * *

 

There is a small cough, and Samson looks up.  The Qunari grins at him and lifts an eyebrow, then cocks his head.  “Hey,” he says slowly, looking between Cullen and Orsino, “I’ll take him up to see the Boss.  If you want.”

There is a deep quiet in the room, then Cullen shrugs.  “Do what you like,” he says imperiously, and rolls his shoulders as if trying to shake off the past few minutes.  “I will be in my office if she requires me.”

And with that, he turns and sweeps from the room, his short cloak billowing behind him.  Samson glares at his back, feeling washed out, then turns his gaze back to the Qunari and sighs.  “Yeah,” he nods. “That’d be good.  Now?”

Bull grins and nods back, then glances at Orsino again.  But whatever he sees there is a mystery to Samson, because he cannot bring himself to look at Orsino.   _ We have our own agenda _ , those words, they make Samson’s guts churn.  But the Qunari nods at whatever he sees on Orsino’s face, and he turns and gestures Samson to follow.

They trudge in silence through the tower, the eyes of all the mages present heavy on Samson.  He barely feels them, however, he is so lost in his own thoughts.  He follows the Qunari’s broad back through the door, out again into the chill mountain wind, his barely-dry shirt letting the icy wind thrust itself through the thin cotton.  He doesn’t know what he’s going to say to the Inquisitor – will she even see him?  He thinks so.  For all that she is the head of a large, almost unwieldy organization, he has heard some pretty weird rumours about the extent to which the Inquisitor’s interest extends.  Stories about her herding druffalo, about carrying flowers to pay respects to a villager’s wife’s memorial.  He shrugs, tries to gather his thoughts.  

Bull’s pace is easy as he leads Samson now through the Great Hall.  The low buzz of conversation greets them, and heads swing curiously in their direction.  “Boss in?” Bull asks a dwarf, who looks up, quill pausing over a sheaf of parchment.  

“Far as I… Samson?”  Varric’s eyebrows shoot up and for a moment he gapes, then hurries out of his chair, following as Bull strides off.  

“Not your business, Varric,” Bull growls, and Samson looks over his shoulder at the dwarf who shrugs, smiling slightly.  

“Everything’s my business, Tiny,” he tells him, not chagrined in the slightest. “Hey, any truth to these rumours about you and Orsino?  That sounds like a match made in the Void if ever I…”

“You deaf or something?” Samson snarls, clenching his fists. “ _ Fuck off _ .”

Varric stops, raising his hands to shoulder height, palms out.  “I’ll just get the rumour mill version down in the Rest!” he yells at their retreating figures, and then Bull leads him around a corner and Varric is out of sight.  They ascend dark stairs, up and up, then come to a closed door with two sentries outside it.  

“Boss in?” Bull asks again, and one of the sentries flicks his eyes to Samson and nods.  

“Are you expected?” he asks, and Bull shakes his head.  

“Nah.  But she’ll wanna know about this. Get ahead of it, I guess.”  The sentry nods again, makes a complicated pass with one hand and the array flashes a brilliant pink.  Samson hears Bull chuckle, and when he looks up at the hulking figure, Bull shrugs.  “She made it pink for me,” he grins, then shrugs again when Samson only looks at him in confusion.

The door swings open, and there she stands – the fabled Inquisitor.  “Bull!” she squeals, beaming happily.  The woman looks exhausted, her long, dark hair flipped up into a casual horsetail, her sleeves rolled up as if she has been working.  Old wounds cover her hands and her forearms, some half-healed, some still open and fresh.  There are ink stains on her hands, and though there are deep, tired circles under her eyes, they are clear and luminous when she shifts her gaze to Samson.  He frowns at her, then drops his gaze.  “‘Quisitor,” he mumbles, “can we talk?”

The Inquisitor steps forward and puts her hand gently under his chin, pulling his gaze upward to her face.  “Samson,” she says. “I wondered when I might see you.  Yes.  We can speak.  Would you mind really, really terribly if Bull was here too?”

He shakes his head, bites his tongue when he feels his throat tighten, his misery almost getting the better of him for a moment before he rallies.  “Nah, I don’t mind.”

She smiles up at him, gentle, almost serene.  “Then come in, the both of you.  Let’s talk.”

* * *

No one has anything left to say to him, so Orsino leaves the mage tower by way of a second-floor door. He leans against the battlements for several minutes, letting the icy wind whip at his hair and trying not to shiver. Dusk is falling over Skyhold, but Orsino has no energy to appreciate the array of colors creeping across the sky. He longs for the cool darkness of his quarters where he can lay his head down and try to purge the image of Samson’s rueful face from his mind. He knows he’s misstepped, somewhere. And even if he can’t pinpoint the exact words that made Samson think he’s not wanted...they were still said.

He sighs and his stomach rumbles. Normally, he can request a meal at the kitchens, but he knows the kitchen staff won’t like someone bothering them so close to an official mealtime. The Herald’s Rest is his best option to eat before he hides away to recollect himself; Orsino hopes no one will be too inclined to chatter, and he can leave quickly. 

Such is not to be. Not thirty seconds after he enters the tavern, his name is called across the main floor. He turns to look and sighs heavily. There will be no escaping this particular crowd, not with Varric wearing his “story-seeking” face. 

Food comes to hand promptly after he pays, and Orsino makes his way over to where Varric sits with Sera, Dorian, and Bull’s Lieutenant whose name he can’t recall at the moment. 

“Nice of you to join us, Brains,” Varric says, gesturing to a free space on the bench with his mug.   
“Varric, why can’t I be Brains?” Dorian huffs, leaning over into the dwarf’s space. 

Said dwarf snorts, pushing the mage back in the other direction. "Coz I'm not trying to suck up to you, Sparkler."   
"Oh.  Oh, well, that's... rather annoying,” the mage huffs, leaning back on the bench.    
Orsino shakes his head and sets to eating his stew. Perhaps if he finishes quickly, he can leave before Varric remembers the reason he called him over in the first place.   
“Why're you trying to suck up to old elfy-face anyway?” Sera asks, nose wrinkled even as she throws back half a mug of something undoubtedly vile.

“I…well…” Varric trails off, not looking anyone in the eye. Orsino glances up to see everyone, even the Lieutenant ( _ Krem, that’s his name _ ) staring at him instead of Varric.    
“He wrote something rather defamatory about me a few years ago,” Orsino tells them in a flat tone before shoving another spoonful of stew in his mouth.   
Dorian laughs. “Rather defamatory, he says! He wrote Orsino as a last-minute betrayer of the mage cause in Kirkwall, or so I gleaned skimming through that book of his.”   
Varric grunts in protest, brandishing his mug at the mage. “The narrative arc was too predictable. We needed another villain!”   
Orsino straightens, glaring at him. “You wrote that I took leave of my senses, became a maleficar abomination, and suffered a rather drawn out, gruesome end at Hawke’s hand.”   
“I…was partly right?”

“Varric…” Orsino says warningly. For all the inner circle seems to know about his work with blood magic on the Red Templars, they are in a very public, crowded place.

“Sorry, sorry,” Varric says, not sounding particularly contrite. 

“You’re very lucky that Hawke would protest me taking retribution, dwarf.”   
“Aww, c’mon Brains, after all I did for you guys with trade and supplies at Redthorne-”   
Orsino scoffs, takes another bite and swallows. “Because of your own idiocy in publishing that book, you were captured by the Seeker and we were forced to negotiate trade with  _ Orlais _ .”

Varric waves him off. “It wasn’t that bad. Besides, Redthorne dishware is all the rage in Val Royeaux these days, or so I hear. Anyway, I’m off track-” 

_ Damn it _ . His bowl is still half-full, and there’s no way he can make a graceful escape at the moment. 

“-what’re these rumors I’ve been hearing about you and our resident Red General? Didn’t think you went for that type, considering, you know, the whole ‘let’s wipe out the mages’ thing they’ve had going on the past couple years.” Oh, and Varric purposely hit that sore spot. Everyone in their general vicinity has gone silent, anticipating Orsino’s response. He takes in a slow breath to calm himself, setting his spoon back in the bowl with a slight clatter. 

“I will tell you what I told the Commander not half an hour ago; anything between Samson and I is a private matter up to the moment the Inquisitor chooses to take issue with it. Let it drop,” he replies coldly, staring down his nose at the dwarf.

Krem whistles, both eyebrows raised. “No denial is almost as good as admitting it in the Chief’s books, and I think I agree with him here.” 

“Sleeping with a Templar,” Dorian muses aloud, smirking at those assembled. “Wonder what that’s like. I hear they can do different things down here in the South than they can in Tevinter. Like, what’s it called...a Silence-?”

“Don’t,” Orsino bites out, shoving away from the bench. “Don’t  _ gossip _ about things you know nothing about, Pavus. You’ll only make an ass out of yourself.” That said, he stalks away, abandoning his plate to the barmaid’s tender mercies. 

The last thing he hears before he leaves the Rest is Varric’s: “You might have overstepped a little there, Sparkler.”

The air is colder now, dusk truly setting in as the sun disappears behind the mountains. Orsino forces himself to keep a steady pace instead of running as he wishes to. The emotional upheaval of the day has proven too much for him, and all Orsino wants is a quiet space to himself in order to fight the headache that looms on the horizon. He makes it back to his quarters unmolested, clears the security array, and closes the door. His fingers shake, fumbling when he tries to unbutton his collar. Orsino doesn’t curse, just leaves it, sinking to the bed with his face in his hands. 


	8. Chapter 8

The freezing wind whistles through the cracks in the mortar, and Samson shifts, pulling his blanket higher around his ears.  Weird, to be sleeping in a bed after all this time.  He sniffs, rolls over again, pondering all that had happened tonight.  The Inquisitor – she’d insisted he call her Merrill, and he does, though it sits uneasy with him after a lifetime of using the titles of those above him – she’d told him that she couldn’t leave him with just  _ anybody _ , and she was sure he understood why, but she didn’t feel right leaving him with Orsino, because… well, Orsino wasn’t  _ here _ was he?  He couldn’t say yes or no for himself.  Samson caught a flicker of something on the Qunari’s face, doubt or puzzlement, but it was gone just as quickly as it had arrived.  So, the…  _ Merrill _ … had said, What about having Bull as a handler?  If Bull was so interested in the Red Templars, then maybe he could have their leader… ex-leader… whatever, maybe he could have them right there?  What did they think?

 

At the end of the discussion, Samson feels like he’s run mental miles.  Bull – as he tells Samson, the article is mostly for business purposes – is fastidious, quizzing Samson on discipline within units, any dissension or aversion to direct orders.  He’s confessed that he’s already gone to Orsino for medicals, was in fact halfway through when the… uh…  _ altercation _ happened.  Merrill had sighed when they’d explained it to her, and put her elbow on her desk.  “I wondered if something like this would happen,” she murmured, then looked up at Samson.  Under her brilliant gaze, he feels as if she knew all his secrets, and he had asked, “Did you know… about us?  Before?  Me and Cullen?”

 

And she had sighed again and shrugged, shaken her head.  The conversation had moved away, back to what should be done with the Reds, how Samson and Bull would work together.  At the end of it, Merrill had asked how he was finding his quarters, and he’d laughed, hadn’t he, because  _ quarters  _ was a bad joke. But when he’d told her he was still bunking in the dungeon, she’d been appalled, sent immediately for a page.  Thus a room was found, tiny and austere; but there is a proper bed, and a basin, and a small window.  There are also cracks in the masonry, and the noise of the Herald’s Rest comes booming into the tiny space – but if beggars cannot be choosers, then neither can prisoners.  

 

Samson shifts in the narrow bed, its softness uncomfortable.  And then there is Orsino.  The moonlight shines in fits and starts through the undressed window, and Samson frowns.  Those words had not ceased pitching and rolling in his head –  _ we have our own agenda _ – and once more Samson shakes his head, lying there in the dark, his hands behind his head.  Had he been stupid to think that they could possibly make it work?  He knows that what Orsino feels for him is real, though they have not yet expressed it in so many words.  But will there be any hope for them, or is it doomed to failure?   _ S’not like there’ve been many success stories, not between mages and Templars _ , he thinks, and rolls over again, putting both hands under one cheek, closing his eyes.   _ Maker’s Arse man, you’d better sleep while you can.  _

 

But he can’t.  Orsino keeps coming to the surface of his mind – Orsino laughing, the way he speaks, the sweet, gentle touch of his hands, the smell of him.  Maker, even the remembered sight of him, stripped of everything, the way he had looked in the low light as Samson had kissed his way down his body, the feel of the shake of muscle, tensed with desire under his lips; even in memory alone it makes Samson catch his breath.  He doesn’t deserve him, he knows it.  Samson sighs and shifts yet again, opens his eyes.  For a second, he lies there, then he thinks,  _ Aw, fuck it.  You gotta talk it out.  You won’t be able to sleep anyway.   _ He throws the blankets back, swinging his legs out of bed in the same motion, then rises to find his boots.  He’ll see if Orsino is awake; and if he is… well, then.   _ The future sorts itself out, _ Samson thinks, and bends to lace his boots.

* * *

Orsino doesn’t know what time he finally laid down to try to sleep, but it feels like only moments before he startles awake at a quiet knock on the door. He sits up slowly, head still aching from his earlier upset. The blanket slides away as he leaves the bed, leaving Orsino’s bare chest and feet exposed to the air with only the light of the heat array in the corner to guide his shuffling steps. He stops at the door, hand hovering over the door handle.  _ Friendly? _ he inquires with a small jolt of mana. The security array lights immediately with a comforting blue, only a rune or two stained a slight purple.  _ No harmful intent, turbulent emotion _ the colors read back, and Orsino feels safe enough to disengage it and open the door. 

Samson stands on the other side, outlined only by flickering torchlight from further down the corridor. Orsino blinks, trying to fight back the grogginess and the headache for a coherent thought. “Raleigh? It’s late…”

“Yeah.  Sorry,” Samson mumbles, and looks down, one hand on the door jamb.  For a moment, he seems lost, and then he looks up, smiles slightly and asks, “Can I come in?”

Head starting to clear a bit, Orsino steps back. “Of course, come in, come in.” He realises as soon as the door clicks shut again that the room is still dark and Samson can’t see as well as an elf does in the dim light cast by the array. He raises a hand, another burst of mana calling white-blue light to his palm and Orsino lets it float until it hangs above both their heads. 

* * *

Samson watches it rise, the light reflecting in his eyes.  They stand in silence for a while, Samson watching the mage-light Orsino has conjured, and Orsino watching Samson.  He looks much better physically, but… there is still something lost about him.  He frowns, concern growing, waiting for Samson to speak, to do something, say something.  But he only waits, watching the light as it rises still, the white of it bathing his face like moonlight, and Orsino feels his throat tighten.  The silence grows and grows until the words within him, questions, all of it, it feels so close to the surface that he feels as if, if he does not speak, then he will simply burst, he opens his mouth, drawing breath, when Samson clears his throat.

  
  


“‘Sino,” he asks, and smiles crookedly, “you think this is a good idea?”

He looks at the elf, who frowns back at him, mouth open slightly as if he was about to ask a question.  Samson smiles more widely then, feeling the knife of those words –  _ We have our own agenda _ – turn in his mind, he ignores the pitch of his stomach, the queasy roll of it to say, “‘Cause… I don’t.  I don’t know anymore.  Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate everything you’ve done.  For me.  For us… you know – my boys and I.  But…”  He sighs a laugh and shakes his head, looking slightly to the left of Orsino’s face, over toward the back wall.  Maker, the light in here is so beautiful, the little globe above them shining silvery in Orsino’s hair, and he just wants to reach out, to gather the man to him, kiss him, hear him make those beautiful sounds again.  But instead, he smiles and tells Orsino, “Think it’s better this way.  That… that maybe we don’t… keep going.  Maybe I was just lonely, and… I mean, you made it pretty clear.  And that’s alright, I get it, I really do.  My boys and I… we never did your lot any favours.  It was just a stupid dream.”

 

He glances at Orsino’s face quickly, sees warring emotions there and bites his lip.  There are so many words, so much all in his head, and he… he doesn’t know what to think, what to say.  He respects Orsino greatly, but  –  there is this terrible fear here, that he will ruin everything somehow, that he may as well ruin it now, consciously, before he has a chance to fuck it up by accident and be left wondering what he’s done.  Before Orsino can speak, Samson shakes his head and babbles, “And look, I’m… I’m sorry, right, for what I said before, about… you know, about nobody wantin’ us, but that’s the fact of it, yeah?  I mean, I gotta wear that.  That’s my fault.  I picked the wrong fuckin’ side for us, I thought I was makin’ things better, but…”  He laughs, runs his hands through his hair and continues, “I’m not.  I never am.  I dunno what to do, I just… I don’t wanna bring you along for the ride.  You don’t need me, weighin’ you down.  So…”  He looks up at the mage-light one more time, and how beautiful, how terrifying it seems to him, how fragile. “It’s better if we maybe just keep things professional, right?  Save us both some grief.”  

 

He takes a deep breath, wanting to feel better, but feeling so much worse.  Before Orsino has a chance to say anything at all, Samson smiles at him one more time, more a rictus than anything else, and tells him, “I’m sorry.  I mean it.  And sorry for wakin’ you up.  I’ll just…”  He gestures over his shoulder, and begins to turn around.

* * *

His throat is too tight to speak for a long moment, questions crushed as that ice from before creeps back into Orsino’s chest while his instincts scream at him to grab Samson, to shout his dissent in the man’s face. But he’s had too many years of repressing that side of himself, holding back any little sign of emotion or attachment that could get a Templar’s attention. For all he’s gotten better about it these last few years, he still has to fight the instinctive silence – because if he lets Samson walk out that door without a word, he knows that will be it. There will be no more nicknames, no more soft eyes when their gazes meet, no more warm hands clasped in his. 

“Raleigh,” he says, barely above a murmur, but his tone is enough to make the man stop before he can turn away completely. “What about our circumstances has changed since this afternoon? Since last week? Everything you’re saying, if true, was true long before we decided to acknowledge what’s between us. The only difference is something someone said. Do you really give Cullen’s words so much weight?”

Samson sucks in a sharp breath, turning back to face Orsino with an edge of anger in his eyes. Orsino holds up a hand before he can say anything. “Or perhaps it was what I said, about how Redthorne can’t – won’t – take you in.” And there’s the flicker he was looking for. Orsino steps closer. “It’s simple fact that the majority of the free mages don’t feel safe around Templars and probably never will. To place an entire faction of Red Templars, known for virulent mage hate and corruption, under Redthorne control would be courting disaster. At worst, the factions would go right back to warring again, this time with Redthorne to blame. At best, the situation would be another Tevinter – the mages above and those who wronged them becoming lesser in their eyes, eventually subjugated and pushed to new ends to fight back. To ask Anders and Hawke to capitulate to such a thing... would be foolish in the extreme.” He tilts his head, watching the flickers of white wash across the pockmarks and shadows of Samson’s face; sharp features beloved in their familiarity even as the man they belong to glares at him. “And I’m a fool, because I did ask, weeks before your judgement.”

* * *

He feels his resolve crumble as Orsino looks at him under the soft glow of the sphere.  “You did, huh?”  He smiles and looks at the floor, clenching his fists.  “Yeah.  That seems… like something you’d do.  Anyone ever tell you you’re probably a bit selfless for your own good?”  He looks up at Orsino, narrowing his eyes a little. “Guess that’s what I’m worried about.  I don’t want to be the charity here.  I  _ hate  _ pity.  But I have to take it, because… pity’s all we’ve got at the moment.  Pitying us is the best that I can ask anyone to do for my boys, but Maker it gets old fast.  But I also don’t want you to take on more’n you should.  I mean, fuck, Orsino, you… you’ve already… I mean, there’s a debt here, isn’t there.  I feel it.  And I dunno if that’s exactly a good thing to start… to keep whatever this is going.  I don’t want you to be with me because you feel  _ sorry  _ for me, that’s all.”  

 

He takes a deep breath and narrows his eyes further. “And… and look, it’s not just  _ something someone said. _  It’s something  _ Cullen  _ said.  He… back in Kirkwall, he was my commanding officer for a long time.  He was… we were…”  he looks at the ceiling, trying to put into words what he and the now-Commander were once, “friends.  Sort of.  More.  I don’t know.  But I know he vouched for me when there weren’t many who would, he supported me when I was just a fucking guttersnipe, existing on dust.  I never cared much for rumour or gossip.  And I know that that’s what he’s basing his judgement about us on.  But there are some people… some people you don’t wanna disappoint, no matter how much you wonder about why they made the choices they did.”

 

He sighs, feeling the bitterness, heavy in his chest.  “So… yeah.  I guess that’s why it hurt so much, when you said about Redthorne.  And I get it – Redthorne ain’t just you, there’s other people you gotta think about.  But… when Cullen left to come here, he… he didn’t solve anything.  The Order was still a shitshow, there were still bastards who would sooner trank a mage than treat ‘em like a fucking person.  And I know now that what I did… fuck, that didn’t help anyone.  All my good intentions…”  he laughs sourly. “All of ‘em, they were just… nothing. Worse than nothing.”  He shrugs, resisting the urge to fold his arms over his chest, knowing that the gesture will be interpreted poorly, and sighs.  “But I guess we gotta talk about it.  No sense in avoiding it anymore.”

* * *

Orsino turns, frowning at him, and puts his hands on his hips.  Part of him had perhaps been resigned to striking this side of Samson’s nature eventually – but he cannot deny that he is dismayed at same time.  “What?” he asks, pretending to ignorance, hoping against hope that Samson will make a noisy exhale and tell him it is nothing.  But instead, he shakes his head and lowers his chin belligerently.

 

“We keep skirtin’ ‘round this,” he says softly, and Orsino swallows hard.  He can see Samson’s hands, curled into fists at his sides, and fights the urge to take a step backwards.  And that realisation brings with it a surge of anger so deep and so raw that Orsino has to bite his lips together as he watches Samson struggle.  Eventually, Samson looks at him and the anger within only grows deeper at the challenging look on his lover’s face.

“You were First Enchanter there.  At the Gallows.  You were at… Maker only knows how many Harrowings.  You saw… you must have seen…”  Samson shakes his head, seems to sneer at himself and then growls, “You saw everything.  The trankings for no reason other than… than a mage who looked at a Templar in the wrong way.  Those fucked up tribunals, how Meredith would send mages to Aeonar at the slightest provocation, no matter what their status.   _ Everything _ .  And you never stopped fighting it.”  Samson cuts his eyes away from Orsino and Orsino watches his jaw work.  “I did.  I tried a couple of times, but they’d either threaten to cut my dose or… And I mean… How… how can we have… I mean…”  That sneer is back, and Orsino watches Samson roll his shoulders and shake his head.  The silence grows around them, thick and stifling, then Samson looks up sharply.  “How can you feel anything for me ‘cept contempt?”

 

Orsino struggles to breathe; and thereby to crush the irritation he feels.  He can feel it within him, an almost physical presence, tight and searing hot, growing, strangling him.   _ Why does he keep questioning this _ ? he wonders angrily, still wrestling with his emotions and the tenuous control he has on his tongue.  And then, something within him snaps, and he glares at Samson across the room.  “Listen to me now, because I will only say this once more.  The world has changed.  Could one person have ever changed what the Gallows was?  No.  I do not believe that for a moment. Meredith was… she was beyond reason, especially in the final years of her command.  It is one of the many failings of history that we do not change until circumstance forces us to; I am as guilty of that as you are.  But Raleigh – you have to stop  _ flagellating _ yourself with this pointless guilt.  Instead, you must  _ act _ .”  He takes a deep breath, bites the inside of his cheek, and in a split second decides to wager everything.  “If you truly feel that you are not worthy to...be at my side, then by all means, I won’t stand in your way.  I will never keep you somewhere that makes you feel inferior in  _ any _ way.  I will not be your jailor.”  He sees Samson wince at the deliberate choice of words, but he also notices the flush creeping up Samson’s neck and exalts – he would far rather have Samson angry, as terrifying as that still is, than wallowing in this pathetic guilt.  “You were a slave to your addiction – an addiction which the Chantry fostered in you.  They had you right where they wanted you; obedient, brutal, fearful only of losing your connection to th-”

 

“You think I don’t know all that?  Don’t make excuses for me!”  Samson snarls abruptly.  Orsino folds his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrow, obviously waiting for Samson to continue.  But he can’t – can’t bring himself to tear himself away, can’t bring himself to leave.  They stand staring at each other for what feels like a long time, and then Orsino snorts and rolls his eyes.

 

“Well?  It is as you say – I have no reason to feel anything other than contempt for you now that the wheel of history has turned in this fashion.  I saw you kill abominations in front of me on several occasions.  I saw you drag apprentices away as they screamed and cried, begging you for leniency.  I saw or heard about all of the Templars’ actions in the Gallows.  And after that… I know what happened, or versions of what happened to you, after the Circles fell.  I know what you were, Raleigh.”  Orsino takes a deep breath, grinds his teeth together then says softly, “But it is what you  _ would be _ that concerns me.  Because knowing all that about your past, I still care for you.  Do you know why?”

 

Samson is silent for a long time.  He looks at Orsino for a short moment, nothing more than a flicker, then drops his gaze again, shame and despair and irritation warring within him.  He hears Orsino inhale, glances up to see the way his hands curl into fists then uncurl again, the way his nostrils flare – then once more he looks away.  He hears Orsino utter a short scoffing noise, then the growls, “Samson.   _ Look at me _ .”

“No,” Samson tells him thickly, “not yet.  Please.  I…”  He harrumphs and lifts his chin, though he still averts his eyes from Orsino’s gaze.  “You said it.  And you’re right.  But… I… I feel the way I do about you because of what you were as well.  You’ve been… you’ve had to be strong.  And I know the world’s not fair and all that shit, but it seems to me you got a lot more than your share of it.  I’m so proud of you, ‘Sino.  I just… I wish you could be proud of me too.”

 

Orsino sighs crossly and says, “Don’t give me that.  Answer the question.”

* * *

Samson takes a long breath; his heart thuds dully in his chest, and he feels hollow, used up.   _ Please ‘Sino, _ he thinks sadly, hardly knowing what it is that he is asking for.  Some part of him wants desperately for this moment to be resolved, for them to move past it – but a larger part knows that they never will.  They had spent too long on either side of the factional divide to let it go so easily.  

 

Finally, Samson wipes a hand under his nose and looks up.  His gaze meets Orsino’s – and there is steel there, a fearsome determination which makes Samson’s heart swell with pride.  “You feel that way because I  _ can _ change.  Because I  _ want _ to change.  Because I know that what happened…”  Orsino watches quietly as Samson swallows and drops his gaze for a moment, then lifts it. “What I did, it was wrong.”  He scowls then, and points his finger at Orsino, “But my guilt is  _ deserved _ , old man.  Do you remember what I said before you did my cleansing whatsit?”  Orsino frowns in confusion, obviously thinking, and Samson huffs a breath impatiently, “Said I trusted you.  I do.  Absolutely.  But I don’t trust  _ myself _ .  How could I, the sort of shit I did?  That’s why I’m not gonna let go of feelin’ guilty – I need it.  I need to remember what happened there in that shithole Circle and after it as much as you want to forget it.  And yeah, it makes me feel bad, and yeah, it makes me doubt my worth sometimes.  But I gotta do it.”  He glares for another moment, then the expression softens.  “Don’t pity me, Orsino.  I deserve this.”

* * *

“I don’t pity you... I don’t!” Orsino snaps when Samson snorts in disbelief. “I can’t even if I wanted to, because as you’ve acknowledged, you’re not some poor waif swept up by circumstances beyond your control.  You know that.  Everything you are, all that’s happened to you, is a direct result of the choices you’ve made.” He steps toward Samson again, close enough that it’s easy to reach out and pull the man’s arm from its folded posture, clasping his hand gently between his own. His skin at Orsino’s fingertips, the way it takes both his hands to span one of Samson’s makes something stir in the pit of his stomach, but he ignores it. “Granted, those choices were shit.” 

The way Samson’s mouth drops open is enough to make Orsino smile a little, because he isn’t pulling away from his grasp.  _ He isn’t leaving _ . The ice around his heart is cracking a little, letting light and feeling through again, and with it his magelight flickers a little brighter. “I can’t pity a man willing to own up to his mistakes and pay for them, learn from them the way you are, Raleigh.” He raises a hand to press to Samson’s face, almost sighing in relief when the man allows it, and runs a thumb along his cheekbone. “So no, I’m not here because I feel sorry for you or I want you to repay a debt or to relish your guilt.  Hold onto it if you feel you must, but do not do it for me.  I’m here because I...care for you, deeply.” And how easy it would be, to say that phrase on the tip of his tongue. But still Orsino hesitates, his gut telling him to wait just a little longer. “I want you with me, despite what Cullen or the others have to say about it. If...if it gets too much- if this becomes something  _ you  _ don’t want, I...I’ll understand.”

* * *

“Ah, Maker.  I want it.  I want you with me,” Samson tells him, powerless to stop a smile – a true smile this time – cross his features.  “‘Sino, I just… ah, shit, can you forgive me?  I been an idiot.  I should never have doubted it.  This.”  He grins, overcome, and blurts, “I love you.”  With that pronouncement, he steps forward, arms going around Orsino’s waist, and pulls their bodies together.  He hears the sharp intake of Orsino’s breath, the other’s hand slipping from Samson’s cheek to his neck. “You’re right, the choices were shit.  But I do make good ones sometimes.”

 

He leans forward, feeling Orsino’s knuckles dig into the flesh below his collarbone, where the mage has gripped the fabric of his shirt.  Softly, Samson kisses that beautiful mouth, feels his lips part, feels warm breath on his skin.  He breathes in the smell of Orsino, his ‘Sino, kissing him deeper now, trying to take away any hurt that he’d caused with his stupid fear.   _ Can’t believe it _ , he thinks disjointedly,  _ can’t believe he wants me.  I love him, I love him, oh Maker, hope he feels the same.   _ Reluctantly, he pulls back, smiling slightly as Orsino leans forward and his eyes open, wide and wondering.  Samson breathes a laugh, then bites his lip.  “Can I stay?” he asks, his voice rough. “It’s okay if you don’t wanna.  But… I wanna stay.  Even if we just sleep.”

* * *

Orsino’s mouth is so dry his throat clicks when he swallows, but he barely hears it over the thundering of his heart. He’s glad Samson’s arms are around him, because there’s a sudden weakness in his knees that threatens to pitch him over even as he keeps looking into the man’s eyes.  _ I love you _ , he said, so sincerely it rings in Orsino’s mind over and over and over.

Love is not something allowed by Circle life. Any sort of emotional attachments or displays of feeling are seen as weakness – liable to lead to deals with demons according to Chantry propaganda. Orsino’s seen many a mage fall into trouble with the Templars due to the much sought-after forbidden fruit called love, Maddox not the least among them. For this reason he kept himself away from such things, away from even the slightest temptation to speak the words. He hasn’t had them directed toward him – the weight of all the feeling behind them – in over four decades. His breath rattles in his chest and he feels hot all over despite the entire upper half of his body being exposed to open air. 

Raleigh loves him. He hoped,  _ knew _ , but the words are still enough to shake something loose inside him. Orsino brings both hands up to Samson’s face this time, pressing close for another kiss that he doesn’t hold back on, pouring all the emotion he can muster into it for long moments before he gently bites the man’s bottom lip, sucking until the other groans and breaking away with a gasp.

“Stay. Stay with me,” he pants into Samson’s mouth. “I don’t think I could let you go now. Maker, Raleigh, I…” His vision blurs a bit and Orsino closes his eyes against the heat prickling at the corners. Samson’s clutching him close, rough hands against the bare skin of his waist and back as Orsino struggles to fit the words lingering in his heart through his mouth. “I love you, too. I forgive you, for this and… and before. Just, please, stay with me.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh, _wow_ there is a lot of sex in this chapter.

“Yeah,” is all Samson can manage before he is swept away.  He exhales, a great rushing gust of breath, relief and lust and everything else, feels the adrenaline in him, the quickening of his pulse as they look each other.  And then Samson can stand it no longer, and he bends forward, his hands coming up Orsino’s back to pull him tightly to him, hands on his shoulderblades, their chests pressed together.  He feels the smile on his lips even as they meet Orsino’s, even as his eyes fall closed.

 

This is nothing like the first time.  The air around them seems to warm, and Samson feels caught, drowning in time.  Orsino’s hands have strayed down to his neck, and occasionally, he makes the most lovely, softly satisfied noise.  That noise thrills Samson, sets fire to his nerves, makes him want Orsino desperately, want to slide to his knees right there and pull off the man’s trousers, take him in his mouth.  He wants to feel Orsino everywhere, in him, everywhere – but there is some part of his mind which holds the reins of control and tells his body  _ not yet _ .  

 

He breaks the kiss, smiling mischievously down at Orsino briefly when his eyes fly open, moving his hand up and around Orsino’s body to tilt his chin up.  Samson bends forward again, kissing the point of Orsino’s jaw, down his neck then back up, chuckling when he hears an impatient-sounding sigh.  “We got time,” he murmurs against Orsino’s ear, then moves to lick his earlobe gently before taking it into his mouth.  Careful not to huff too loudly into Orsino’s ear, he releases the lobe to place tiny, deliberate kisses in a line along the outer shell of it.  “‘Sino,” he sighs, “tell me what you want.”

* * *

_ Anything. Everything, _ Orsino’s mind instantly replies, conjuring the fantasies he had earlier in his office. “I-” he starts, but Samson’s lips against the sensitive skin of his ears is too distracting and he groans, pressing himself closer to the man. He’s already started to harden in his pants, and that too is distracting. He hisses when Samson scrapes gentle teeth against the tip of his ear, finally jerking his head away just a bit when the sensation is too overwhelming. “Stop that, you’re making it difficult to think!”

“That’s kind of the idea,” Samson chuckles, though he pulls his head back and looks at Orsino, “You’re not supposed to think too much.  You’re just supposed to feel.”  He waits for a moment, then raises his eyebrows slightly. “You shy, old man?”  He grins, then the look fades slightly as a look of concern replaces it.  “I wanna do whatever you want, alright?”  Samson pauses, as if he is wondering how to frame an idea, then shrugs slightly.  “I don’t wanna just… assume you want to do… whatever.  I done enough taking, okay?” 

Orsino feels compelled to soothe that worry. He presses another kiss to the corner of Samson’s mouth. “Not shy, Raleigh. Trust me when I say I will tell you if you ever do something I don’t want. No, I’d just rather not… well.  Not  _ think. _ ”

“Really?” Samson asks, and laughs.  “Yeah, I think I get that.”

He smiles in response, because that isn’t quite right but it works to distract the man. Orsino rises on his toes again, tightening his arms around his neck as he places his mouth closer to Samson’s ear. “I want you. I want you in my bed. Let’s start with that.”

Samson takes a deep breath and he feels the man swallow.  “Yeah,” he says quietly, and squeezes Orsino once more to him before laughing quietly once more. “Dunno if I can make it that far.”

The elf snorts. “Well then, allow me to give you some incentive.” He pulls out of Samson’s grasp, takes one step backwards, and another as he starts to unlace his own trousers. “Either you’ll be naked by the time you reach the bed, or I’ll take care of myself tonight.” The coyness is sudden and feigned, but Orsino knows his mask is just good enough to keep Samson for seeing it for the empty threat it is.

“Fuck,” Samson growls, already scrambling to pull his shirt over his head. Orsino turns and takes the last steps to his bed and his trousers drop easily. He kicks them to the side, now completely naked, and picks up his blanket to move it out of harm’s way. He’s just turning to sit when strong arms wrap around him from behind, pulling him up against Samson’s now-bare front. 

* * *

“Aw,” Samson murmurs into Orsino’s ear, helpless against the grin on his face, the happiness in his heart, “I didn’t make it.  Still got my pants on.  So…”  He shrugs against Orsino’s back, and laughs, then kisses his neck hard.  “Guess you’re gonna have to make good on that promise.  Or… you know.  I could help you out.  Since I’m here.”

Orsino hums as if in consideration, but he can feel the other’s silent laughter against his chest. “Come on,” Samson wheedles, still grinning. “You won’t regret it.  I hope.”  He strokes a long line over Orsino’s chest, fingers trailing lightly over his skin, feeling the shiver of his muscles.  Slowly, he moves his hand lower, stroking again, up and down, lower and lower until his fingers brush Orsino’s cock.  He smiles, feels his lungs fill, his breathing deep, feels Orsino sigh against him.  “Come on,” Samson repeats, and kisses Orsino’s neck again, nuzzling his nose just underneath his jaw, “lemme take care of you.”

When Orsino doesn’t respond, Samson swallows, his eyes closing.  Gently, carefully, he takes Orsino’s cock in his hand, feeling its weight and thickness, and pulls it through his fist.  He keeps the rhythm slow, almost languid, wishing he could watch Orsino’s face.  Without thinking, he rocks his hips forward into Orsino’s ass, not even really aware that he’s doing it.  He wants this, Maker how he’s wanted it – slow, careful, hot and sweet and lovely.  He keeps the rhythm of his hand steady, his knees already weakening, then mutters, “This alright?”

Orsino makes a strangled, inarticulate sound, swallows, and murmurs, “No. If you keep doing that this night will be finished before it begins, and I may possibly fall over.” 

Samson laughs, muttering in return, “Wasn’t aware that you could come the  _ dawn _ , old man.  Quite a fuckin’ trick that.”  He sighs shakily and relaxes his grip on Orsino, who slowly turns around and sinks down onto the bed.  Samson grins, looking at him fondly for a moment, then tucks his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers.  It’s not something he’s quite brave enough to do, not just yet, not in this context, so he smirks and asks, “Any room for me in there?”

* * *

Orsino smiles back, looks down at the trousers the man still wears. He wants to peel them off him, lay the man down and kiss his way up his no-doubt scarred thighs the way he imagined earlier. But it’s clear enough in the way Samson hesitates that such a thing isn’t on the table – not just yet. Instead, Orsino pushes himself back until his head hits the pillow, lets his legs fall open naturally, and holds both hands out to Samson in a clear gesture of welcome. The man grins lopsidedly, sits carefully on the edge of the bed and shakes his head, making a noise of irritation.  “Bloody boots,” he mutters, still shaking his head. “Dunno how you can walk around in here without ‘em.  Place is fuckin’ freezing.”

“Heat arrays,” Orsino answers instantly, gesturing to the single glowing rune against the far wall. “I keep one on the floor as well, though my feet don’t feel the cold unless it’s extreme.”  

Samson snorts, the  _ click-click! _ of the laces coming through the eyelets constant.  “Still not warm enough for me,” he mutters, then sits up from his hunched over position and pulls off first one, then the other boot before turning to Orsino.  “That’s better,” he grins, and clambers over to straddle Orsino’s hips, before bending forward to kiss him gently. Orsino’s hands come up to cradle his head automatically, stroking through strands of brown hair before he tugs down, pulling him in for a deeper kiss and licking at the man’s lips. Samson obliges, flooding his mouth with the sharp taste of iron and lingering lyrium that steals Orsino’s breath. He curls one hand around Samson’s shoulder, urging him nearer. He wants to be closer, wants the man’s weight on him, over him, pressed against Orsino’s any way he can have it. He breaks away from Samson’s mouth, gasping under the need that starts at the base of cock and surges through him like a wave. “Raleigh, please-” but any more words are lost to him when Samson shifts against him, putting his hands both under Orsino’s jaw, the skin rough, so rough for such a gentle touch, and kisses him again and again – his cheeks, the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose.  He can feel Samson’s breath, feel the thrum of his heartbeat, knows that he can feel Orsino’s own heart under his hands.  He moans a little, arching up against Samson’s chest, pulling him closer again as he whispers, “Please.”

* * *

“Please what?” Samson grins, stroking his thumbs against the firm line of Orsino’s jaw.  He rises up a little on his knees, kissing Orsino’s hairline, the top of his head, breathing deeply.  Maker, he smells beautiful, he’s astonishing, all Samson wants is to give Orsino everything he wants.  “Please what?” he asks again, more quietly this time, feeling that strange ache begin to blossom again, the same ache he’d felt when Orsino had paused when Samson had told him earlier that he wasn’t supposed to think too hard about what he wanted.  It’s the same ache that still questions if what he feels is real, if he isn’t just clinging to Orsino because Orsino will let him, because Orsino is familiar, because Orsino is… Samson shifts, suddenly deeply uncomfortable, in spite of all Orsino’s assurances that he wants him there, with him, in his bed.  He feels the old relationship, how things used to be – Samson the jailor and Orsino the prisoner.  Quickly, too quickly, he pulls back from Orsino slightly, holding his breath.   _ Don’t _ , he tells himself sternly,  _ He wants you here.  Things have changed, you daft git – they’ve changed everywhere except for in your head.  He wants you, he  _ does _ , and he’s allowed, you’re allowed.  This isn’t anything to be ashamed of any more.   _ “‘Sino,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss Orsino’s cheek again, “‘F I tell you what I want, will that make it easier?”

Orsino looks at him with pupils blown so wide the green of his eyes is almost entirely gone, the emotion on his face difficult to parse. Samson can feel the tick of muscles in the other’s throat when he swallows. “Yes,” he whispers, drawing fingers from Samson’s hair down along his jaw before pressing a thumb to the divot of his chin. “Tell me?”

* * *

Slowly, Samson nods, then licks his lip and bites it.  “‘Kay,” he says quietly, then laughs slightly when it comes out shaky.  Looking at Orsino’s face is too hard, so he closes his eyes, takes a deep, steadying breath and tells him, “Would… Uh… I wanna use my hand on you, so I can watch you come.  I… and I mean, if you want to, maybe… you could stick your fingers up my arse?”  Orsino makes a choking noise. He opens one eye and grins. “If you want.  You don’t have to.”  Orsino’s face is strange, he seems slightly astonished, and Samson’s grin fades as he opens his other eye.  He bites his lip and huffs, then looks away.  “I…”  he swallows, then frowns, “I’m not… not really ready for more than that.”

* * *

“That-” Orsino tries to get a hold of his breathing again after a valiant attempt to swallow his own tongue. Maker, leave it to Samson to bring every bolt from the blue crashing down in a single encounter. The heat that’s been building under his skin and especially in his groin all rushes to his face a moment later, because those words are enough to bring a flood of imagery to the forefront of Orsino’s brain in such vivid detail it’s all he can do to search for words. “ _ Yes _ . I- yes, I want that. Anything, anything. Anything you’ll let me.” He takes a shaky breath, looks up at Samson who’s still frowning and biting his lip. Gently, he drags his thumb with just enough pressure to pull the abused lip out from between Samson’s teeth. “As for...what I want...”  _ Maker, why are words so difficult? Just say it, it can’t be so shocking after what he just asked _ . “Can I… I want to. I want to use my mouth on you. Kiss you everywhere,” he murmurs, looking straight into Samson’s open eyes. “Everywhere you’ll allow.”

“Shit,” Samson breathes, then slowly releases a lungful of air.  “Yeah.  Uh… Yeah.  That’d be…”  He laughs and shakes his head, then looks at Orsino, bringing his hand up to cup his jaw.  “Yeah.  Good.  We done enough talkin’, you reckon?”

It’s a relief when the discomfort building between them melts away at those blunt words. Orsino shakes his head with a smile but says nothing, instead pulling Samson down into another kiss. 

* * *

Samson grins into it.   _ Guess that’s a yes _ , he thinks, feeling Orsino’s mouth open a little wider.  Maker, he tastes so… Samson moves his hand up, into Orsino’s hair, stroking it, then drawing his fingers down the outside of the shell of Orsino’s ear.  He feels the pause and the resultant shiver, and grins to himself again, making a mental note that that seems to be a sensitive spot.  As they kiss, Samson moves his hands over Orsino’s body, stroking the long planes of skin; down his neck, his shoulders, his chest.  He lightly runs the tips of his fingers between the ridges of bone which mark Orsino’s ribs, delighting at the renewed shiver this elicits.  That sweet, satisfied sigh comes again, and Samson exalts, wondering if it is the feeling of his fingers which is wringing that sound from him.  So he does it again, and again, until Orsino laughs, pulls away for a moment and tells him, “You’re tickling me.”

“Not such a bad thing,” Samson grins, and shrugs. “Sorry, I guess.”

“You don’t look very sorry,” Orsino tells him, and Samson laughs.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, leaning forward, shifting his hips back a little so that he is kneeling over Orsino’s thighs. “That’s because I’m not.”  He smirks, cocks his head and kisses the tip of Orsino’s nose.  “You’re bloody beautiful, you are.”

 

The elf snorts and rolls his eyes, and Samson sits up.  For a moment, he is taken  with the truth of his words – there lies Orsino,  _ his  _ ‘Sino, the man whom he loves and loves him in return.  His chest and neck are flushed slightly, his hair dishevelled, and his eyes utterly luminous, shining brightly in the glow of the magelight.  It seems brighter, Samson notices vaguely – but then Orsino smiles at him gently, and Samson puts his hands on his chest and smoothes them down, relishing the way it feels, down and down Orsino’s body, until his hands rest on the other man’s hips.

 

Carefully, he tucks his hand around Orsino’s cock, holding it gently.  He pulls it up through his fist, watching the foreskin slide over the head slightly, and smiles when even this small movement pulls a sigh from Orsino.  He keeps the movement going, slow and gentle, not gripping too hard or soft, enough of a motion to be teasing, and his breath shortens when he looks up at Orsino’s face.  Orsino has his eyes closed, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady movements; his face is slightly flushed, the colour deepening as it spreads down his neck and onto his chest.  He smiles, watches as the elf arches his head back, his mouth dropping open slightly, his breath coming in short pants now.  As Samson works his hand back and forth, increasing the pace of his motion as Orsino hardens further, he sees more – the slight flare of Orsino’s nostrils, the way his fingers flex and twist into the sheet beneath him.  “Sino,” he murmurs, and Orsino gasps and whimpers, making Samson catch his breath.  He moves his hand a little faster again, beginning to feel the motion a little in his wrist, and smiles slightly in anticipation.  “C’mon,” he murmurs, leaning forward, watching Orsino’s expression carefully, the shift of it, the way his hands go to his hair and then smooth down his face, covering it.  Another whimper from Orsino, his breath hitches once, twice and Samson can feel it, it’s close, Orsino’s fingers hook slightly and another long, high noise, barely loud enough to be called a moan, escapes him.  “‘Sino,” Samson whispers again, “oh, Maker, ‘Sino…”

* * *

He wants to make time slow, make this moment last forever.  Samson shifts his grip, tightening it and loosening it again, slowing the rhythm back down.  Orsino makes that high, reedy noise again and a hand comes down from his face to clutch at the wrist of Samson’s hand which rests on his hip.  “Maker, don’t… don’t stop,” he murmurs, and Samson smiles.

So he builds up the pace again, slower than before, building it inexorably as Orsino bucks his hips slightly, seemingly unaware of the movement.  His hand creeps back up his body, over his face again.  This gesture is strangely endearing to Samson; he feels almost as if it grants both Orsino and himself some kind of privacy.   _ Stop thinkin’ _ , he laughs at himself,  _ You’re as bad as ‘Sino.   _ Orsino whines, and for the last time, Samson increases his pace, faster as once more his lover’s mouth drops open, as he gasps, as the muscles in his stomach hitch and release, as he comes suddenly over Samson’s hand without a sound.  “Beautiful,” Samson tells him, knowing that Orsino won’t hear him, hardly aware that he himself has spoken.  He takes a deep breath and sighs, then smiles, slowly reducing the motion of his hand, helping Orsino find his way back down from the heights.  He watches as Orsino shifts a little and pulls his hands away from his face, staring for a moment at the ceiling before dropping his eyes to Samson.  He chuckles, feels the hollow, hot feeling of his own desire in the pit of his stomach, and relinquishes his grip on Orsino’s cock.  “That was fun,” he murmurs, and raises his hand to his mouth, beginning to lick the come from his fingers.

* * *

Orsino is far too aware of the blood rushing under his skin, the magelight just bright enough to show him how black Samson’s eyes are as he looks back, the curl of the man’s tongue around his own fingers as he licks up Orsino’s spend. His heart beats too fast even after the rest of him starts to calm, and it’s impulse that has him reaching out for the man’s wrist, pulling it to his mouth until he’s the one sucking come from Samson’s hand, licking between each finger and dragging his teeth against joints and the meat of the man’s palm. Samson’s breath fans over Orsino’s face, interspersed with deep groans that go a long way to dispelling any lethargy that might overcome him post-orgasm. He laves his tongue against the broad of the man’s palm, the last of his own seed sour as he drops the hand and pulls Samson back in again. The man kisses like a force of nature, pressing Orsino back into the bed with his weight and teeth on Orsino’s lips. He skims his palms over the warrior’s biceps, slipping down as he tucks his arms under Samson’s, over ribs and corded muscle to the waistband of the man’s trousers, still omnipresent. And how he wants. “...can I?” he asks, running his nails along the skin just above the fabric.  

* * *

“Uh huh,” is all Samson manages, and then his lips are back on Orsino’s, his hands restless, on his hips, his chest, his neck and in his hair. Orsino melts into it, lets his fingers slip under the man’s pants until he can grip at the skin of his ass, stroking over the curve of smooth muscle; he moves one hand to the front slowly, sliding until it presses against Samson’s cock while his other hand clumsily unknots the man’s trouser ties. Samson is full and soft against his palm, and though he feels the man tense slightly, he still moans when Orsino squeezes him gently, rolling the cock and balls and tugging just the slightest bit. The knot finally falls away and he jerks the waistband sharply. “Off,” he says, voice rough and low between the harsh inhales of the other’s breath. Samson complies, rolling just enough to the side that he can shuck the trousers without crushing him. Orsino pushes even further, giddy when Samson allows him to reverse their positions until it’s Orsino braced over the man, kneeling between his legs. He drops kisses against Samson’s throat, over his collarbone and down his chest; scrapes fingernails against the man’s nipples as he arches and gasps Orsino’s name. He mouths lower, down a trail of scars and dark hair that catches between Orsino’s lips when he drags down, down. Samson’s muscles pull taut as he reaches his hips, but no protest bursts forth so he carefully, gently kisses down to the man’s soft cock and takes him in his mouth. 

* * *

A gasp, Samson’s hips bucking until Orsino uses both hands to pin him down to the bed. Salt and bitter come linger in Orsino’s mouth, but soon he can taste just the barest hint of something else against the iron-warmth of Samson’s skin. He groans, gratified when his lover jerks again, leaking a little more of that acrid taste. He pulls his hands down too, stroking over Samson’s thighs. He’s fantasized about kissing them, so he pulls away to drag his tongue against a thick scar that runs from inner knee to halfway up the man’s outer thigh.

“Maker, shit, ‘Sino,” Samson gasps. “ _ Please _ .”  

Orsino bites him in retaliation, not hard, but enough to make him jerk slightly and moan, surprising him a little. He notes Samson’s reaction the same way he does anything else, but jolts when something about the man’s earlier...request finally registers in his lust-clouded mind. He drops his forehead to Samson’s hip. The man’s cock is so close to his face….Orsino could play it off, wait until tomorrow to acquire what he needs, but… Samson was so earnest. He digs his fingers into the man’s thighs, enough to grab attention but not near enough to be painful like the blue bruises Orsino has been attempting to ignore on Samson’s arms.

“I...do not have any lubricant,” he groans against the man’s hip.

“Huh?” Samson gasps as the words filter slowly into his mind.  He swallows, trying to re-route his brain, opening his eyes to frown up at the ceiling.   _ No lubricant _ , he thinks, trying to puzzle it out.  If this was his quarters, he might have had some oil… but it’s not.  The kitchens?  Too far.  He wiggles impatiently, then looks away across the room so that he doesn’t have to look at his own cock, which in spite of the desire pooling in-between his hips remains flaccid.  Samson sighs.  “We could wait.  But…”  _ I’d rather not,  _ remains unsaid as his mouth twists into a wry smile.  “I got nothing.  You got any ideas?”

* * *

“There...there is a...spell,” Orsino starts. In any other situation he wouldn’t hesitate, but Samson is who he is and their shared history is enough to make him cautious, careful where he wouldn’t be with nearly any other bedmate. “It creates an oil. Popular among the Circles, for obvious reasons.” He tilts his head forward a bit, looks into the man’s eyes. “Shall I show you?”

Samson nods, cautiously, his eyes narrowing slightly.  “S’not… I mean, it’s not gonna hurt, is it?”  He laughs a little, nervous sounding, and his eyebrows rise in question.

“No, it won’t hurt,” he says, pulling one hand reluctantly away from Samson’s skin. A moment of concentration – barely a thought at all – is enough to call the oil to his palm, clear gold even under the cool light and already dripping through his fingers in warm, wet droplets. He holds his hand out for Samson to inspect, lets the man look and even dip a curious finger in the stuff. 

“Huh,” he grins, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together, staring at them for a moment before looking up once more at Orsino. “Kinda tingly.  How’d you do that?”

Orsino snorts, buries his face against Samson’s hip before he bursts into full laughter at the man’s sudden switch from hesitance to curiosity. “It’s just a modified oil-slick spell. Some elemental manipulation, nothing complicated.” He pushes against Samson’s skin, dragging his face down to his cock where the sudden iron-musk of the man is strongest, and breathes in. He shivers, draws the hand filled with oil up Samson’s thigh, pressing the skin just between his legs barely above where he most wants to touch. He presses down, against the soft plane before his thumb brushes against the man’s entrance. “Yes?”

* * *

Samson’s mouth drops open at the sensation, the firm touch of Orsino’s fingers, deliciously wet, deliciously  _ close _ ; close to where he needs them, close to what he wants.  A long, low moan escapes him, and he feels his head fill with the soft, all-encompassing blaze of desire.  “Maker, yeah,” he groans, and tilts his hips up a little higher.  Consciously, he wills all his muscles to relax, but it’s difficult with Orsino’s breath on his cock, he can feel it in warm gusts against the skin, the long fingers slick and teasing across his hole.  Slowly, Orsino raises his eyes to look at Samson; the gaze is so heavy, so full of want, Samson bites his lower lip and holds his gaze.  Orsino smiles slightly at him, and without saying more, still looking at Samson, he bends forward and presses a kiss to the head of Samson’s cock.  His lips part slightly, he hovers there for a moment, and Samson feels as if he can hardly breathe.  Orsino’s smile widens, becoming a little mischievous, and he takes the head of Samson’s cock fully into his mouth, swallowing around it.

 

Samson gasps, his mouth dropping open.  The sensation is so, so good, he groans quietly, putting his weight on one arm so he can reach out and touch Orsino.  He strokes his hair, feeling closer, Maker, closer to properly coming than he has in years; he pants, feeling the hard tip of Orsino’s ear under his fingers, opening his hand to smooth the tips of all his fingers over the shell of it in a delicate fan.  “‘Draste, fuck, O-Orsino, I… fuck, that feels… feels so…  _ fuck,”  _ he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Maker, ah, Maker, fuck me with… please, your… I need… want.  ‘Sino, please,” he whines, then gasps and holds his breath as Orsino’s hand shifts against him, as Orsino takes his cock deeper into his mouth.  

* * *

He groans around the cock in his mouth and shudders, trying not to concentrate too much on Samson’s hand against his ear, or how Samson’s begging makes him flush with arousal again; each gravelly word and whine will be treasured, thought about again later when he can truly appreciate just how much he enjoys reducing Samson to this, but not now. 

Instead Orsino closes his eyes to concentrate, presses his oiled index finger harder against the ring of muscle, finally working past it and sinking into heat slowly, slowly. Samson gasps above him, fingers spasming against Orsino’s ear and sending electric bursts of pleasure down his spine. Orsino slides off his knees then, lets his hips drop to the bed as he lies between Samson’s legs. 

_ Damn this man, I’m fifty years old.  _ But that doesn’t seem to matter because his own cock is starting to twitch and fill again under the attentions to his ear. He sucks in a sharp breath, then sucks a little harder on Samson’s cock as his finger finally sinks to the last knuckle. He pulls it out and pushes slowly back in, coating the inside of the passage until it’s slick with oil. Orsino doesn’t wait for prompting to push a second finger in, stretching the ring of muscle wider as each knuckle sinks past it. 

He rolls Samson’s cock over his tongue, sucking and pulling soft flesh along when he moves his head back just the slightest bit. Samson hisses even as Orsino starts to build a rhythm with every thrust of his hand – the sudden pinch of the man’s fingers against the tip of his ear startles Orsino enough to make his teeth slip, grazing over the head of Samson’s cock even as a hungry fire flares in Orsino’s gut. His hips jerk reflexively against the bed at the same time as Samson pushes further into his mouth. They moan simultaneously and without thinking about it Orsino sucks harder to chase that delicious sound, letting his teeth just barely scrape against the shaft as he thrusts his fingers in a little harder, curls them upward until they find that small, soft spot on the second try. 

Samson whines under his breath, spine bowing upwards as he braces both feet against the bed for better leverage. 

* * *

Maker, this… this is beyond luxury, beyond decadence.  To watch Orsino take his cock in his mouth without a moment’s hesitation, see the flush on his cheeks, and then,  _ fuck _ , when he, when he worked the first finger in –  _ fuck _ .  It’s almost too much, Samson knows he’s being too loud, but he can’t seem to help himself when the sight in front of him is just… it’s too beautiful.  Without thinking, he moves the arm supporting him, rolling down onto his back, pulling his hand away from Orsino’s ear.  He tries to reach down further, tries to find a way to resume his stroking, but stops when Orsino works the second finger up inside him and oh  _ oh _ ,  _ Maker _ , that feels fucking  _ gorgeous _ , he hisses, feels the unconscious thrust of his hips, and a moan escapes him even as he feels the vibration of Orsino’s own moan through his cock.  Seconds later there is a short scrape of…  _ aw fuck, teeth _ , Samson raises a hand to his mouth, curls the fingers over his own jaw and bites, hard on the meat between his forefinger and thumb.  The sudden pain makes him whimper, but at least it pushes his mind back, gives it something else to concentrate on.  That is until Orsino shifts the fingers inside him to,  _ Maker! _ that, that, there, that spot, his thighs shift open further, he raises his hips by putting his feet flat on the bed and he groans softly and bites harder on his own hand.  It only pushes the desire down a fraction, becoming intermingled with it somehow, he mentally scrambles for any foothold against the rising tide, panting as his hips begin to thrust shallowly.   _ Freezing your arse off in Sahrina… uh, Commander Meredith naked… shit, _ he thinks,  _ That time Coxson’s leg went septic, fuck, think of the pus, aw fuck, fuck, ngh, too late, I’m gonna...  _ “‘Sino,” he pants, his breath hot and humid, gusting over the palm of his hand. “‘Sino, can’t… feels, I wanna…”  he moans, reaching down even as he bites harder again, his other hand reaching down, feeling the way Orsino’s head moves forward and back, his fingers catch Orsino’s hair and he holds it, holds his breath, not thinking, not feeling anything except for the thrust of Orsino’s fingers, the warmth of his mouth upon him, the brilliant white heat which hangs almost tangible, so close but just out of reach, right there in front of him.

* * *

He can sense how close Samson is to coming, in the tension of the man’s thigh under his free hand and the clench of his arse around his fingers.  _ Maker, Raleigh _ … Orsino sucks harder, taking the whole of his soft cock into his mouth, pushes his tongue against it until the shaft is pinned to his upper palate. He pauses just long enough to call more oil to hand, coating a third finger before it joins the others in sinking into Samson’s wet heat. The pace quickens, Orsino rubbing all three crooked fingers in a rhythm that drives Samson up, pressing hard into Orsino’s open mouth as he sucks and pushes harder, farther. 

Samson sinks from muffled speech to high, gasping groans and Orsino’s heart quickens as the man’s hand fists in his hair. Every part of him wants to see this, to know the moment Samson reaches his peak as intimately as he can muster. He opens his eyes, tilting his head just enough he can see the man’s face – his eyes scrunched shut, mouth open and chest barely moving until Orsino presses up hard, lets his teeth sink just a bit into the smooth flesh in his mouth and Samson jerks with a quiet, wordless cry.  _ Yes, come for me, please… I need you. _

Hot seed seeps over his tongue, down Orsino’s throat when he swallows around the cock. He pushes his fingers in again, fucking him slowly now as each brush sends spasms through Samson’s hips and thighs. The bitterness has Orsino breathing hard, licking at his cock and sucking, trying to eke every last drop out of the man until Samson shudders and whines, tugging at his hair. Orsino slows, releases him reluctantly with a satisfied sigh. He’s careful when he pulls his fingers out, slow enough to watch Samson’s face as it relaxes, falling slack with momentary satiation. Orsino gets to his knees, wiping his fingers on a corner of the discarded blanket before he turns back to the man.

Samson is beautiful under the flickering magelight, chest heaving and limbs splayed across the narrow bed.  _ Maker, I love you _ . The thought brings a smile to his lips and builds into warm happiness in his chest. Orsino moves up, kneeling over the man and bracing a hand against Samson’s chest to kiss his neck, his cheek, his mouth. 

* * *

Samson laughs, a great shuddering sigh escaping him, and he lifts his arms – though they feel lead-weighted, too heavy to move as quickly as he wants them to – and embraces Orsino, pulling him down tightly to his chest.  Their slick chests stick slightly, and Samson grins, opening his eyes as he feels Orsino nuzzle his nose across one cheek and then kiss his jaw gently.  “Fuck,” he breathes, “that was…” he swallows and shakes his head slightly as he feels Orsino’s lips curl into a small smile.  “You’re the brain,” he says gruffly, “I’m sure you know a word for it.”

“Adequate, perhaps?” Orsino chuckles, reaching up to tuck a strand of grey hair behind his ear.

“Bloody Void, give yourself more credit,” Samson mumbles, feeling the peaks of only a few moments before becoming subsumed under a heady kind of somnolence.  He blinks and smiles tiredly. “Superlative.  Is that a word?”

Orsino only laughs, and Samson’s smile widens.  He shifts slightly, stroking a long line over Orsino’s back, revelling in the warmth of their naked bodies together, the feeling of this man between his thighs.  The smile warps slightly, becomes a smirk and he tells Orsino, “You’re gonna spoil me, old man.  Because Maker damn it, if that was  _ that _ good with your mouth and your fingers, then I’m not gonna wanna ever leave your bed after I take your cock.”

* * *

Orsino snorts and pushes himself up, off Samson’s chest to stare at him, very briefly, narrowing his eyes.  “Wha–” Samson begins to say before Orsino is bending down, kissing him hard, his tongue pushing into Samson’s mouth, Maker the taste of himself in his mouth is so alluring, so devastatingly filthy that it makes Samson open his mouth a little wider, floods saliva back into his mouth, previously dry from breathing through it for so long as he fought his orgasm.  Orsino shifts his hips again and Samson feels him against his thigh, his eyebrows rise and he laughs into Orsino’s mouth, twisting his head to ask, “Fuck sakes, old man are you..? Are you hard again?  Flames, I…”  His brow creases with concern, feeling the knot of shame tighten in his belly, wondering what Orsino must think of him and his softness.  The frown deepens even as he shifts himself,  even as Orsino’s eyes open and he frowns in return, pushing himself up off Samson once more. 

“We don’t…” he begins, but Samson shakes his head and grins.  

“Didn’t we wait long enough?” he asks, “If you think you want to go again, then fuck it, let’s go again.”  He snorts, looking up at Orsino and pulls his knees up around Orsino’s body, splaying himself out and smirking.  “Be a shame to waste all that nice slick you made now, wouldn’t it?”

* * *

Orsino frowns harder, something about the tension in Samson’s expression setting him on edge. He sits back on his heels, staring hard at the man for a moment before he sets a gentle hand on Samson’s leg, skims up his thigh, but pauses at the man’s aborted twitch. 

“We don’t have to,” he says again, firmly enough to stall interruption. “This is…” he motions to his own cock, “it’s mostly a result of, ah...of you touching my ear, earlier. But I don’t need anything more.” He swallows, leans over again between the man’s legs until he’s stretching up to brush his lips against Samson’s cheek. “I don’t need more than this, I swear to you, Raleigh.”

And Samson’s smirk slips the slightest fraction, more than enough for Orsino to catch, to press his mouth to the corner of the warrior’s lips and whisper against them. “Tell me what’s wrong?”

* * *

“Nothing,” Samson immediately replies, and averts his eyes as Orsino sits up again.  Quickly enough he looks back up at him and smirks, asking him casually, “How the fuck could anything be wrong?”  

 

It doesn’t work.  Orsino continues to gaze at him, his eyebrows raised slightly as if he is waiting.  Samson shakes his head, shifts and reaches up, trying to pull Orsino back down to kiss, anything to stop that questioning gaze.  But Orsino resists, of course he does, and eventually Samson gives up.  “Fine,” he sighs, and looks away again, even as he gestures to his crotch.  “I just… it’s… this.  I’ll probably never… y’know.  And…” he laughs bitterly, “it’s not gonna be because I don’t want to.”  His expression shifts, becoming one of distaste, and then he looks at Orsino and smiles again, rather sadly.  “It’s not like it matters, not… y’know, in the grand scheme or anything.  I can still get off.  And I mean, I’m not… like, I’m not so enamoured with myself that I think that because my dick doesn’t get hard that the entirety of Thedas should go into mourning because sexy ol’ Raleigh Samson ain’t gonna be doin’ ‘em any time soon.  But…”  He pauses, looking down at his flaccid cock and shaking his head.  “Ah, it’s stupid.  Don’t worry about it.”  Samson looks back up and raises one eyebrow, noting the expression of sympathy on Orsino’s face.  “Nothin’ kills the mood like talkin’ about how I can’t get it up anymore,” he says dryly, and sighs.  “Come on, you.  C’mere.  Let me kiss you again, please?”

* * *

There’s a battle that goes on in Orsino’s mind, because a large part of him says that this needs to be talked out, that he can say something about how it doesn’t matter, how he doesn’t care if Samson can never fuck him because just being here – in this bed, together and in love – is enough. But the smaller, more logical part of his brain recognizes a conversation closed for the moment; any efforts to speak further on the topic will just upset them both, and the last thing Orsino wants is for Samson to stop speaking to him, to leave. 

He doesn’t smile but he lets his body relax, noting that his erection has indeed flagged in the interim. But it doesn’t matter. Orsino lets himself sink back into Samson’s welcoming embrace and the open-mouth kisses he presses to Orsino’s lips. It’s soft at first but builds quickly as Samson’s hands stroke his shoulders, down over his back until they dig into the muscle where his thighs meet his arse with obvious intent. He can feel Samson’s lips curl under his, into that familiar smirk which he sees in his mind's eye – there is a brief squeeze, then those hands, the roughness of sword-callus on the palms making his toes curl slightly, they come up his back again, up his neck and  _ oh _ , the delicate touch of the fingers, circling gently around the shell of his ears, both now, up to the points and back down.  Samson’s smirk broadens and he breaks the kiss for a moment to whisper, “You think we could again, if I kept this up?”  His voice is rich with hidden laughter, but before Orsino can answer him, Samson’s lips are back, teeth taking his bottom lip lightly, pulling it gently into his mouth before he releases it again.

Orsino presses into the kiss, muffling his moan with Samson’s mouth. If the man wants to play it this way, with an air of self-satisfaction for “discovering” something Orsino let slip, then gentle is not the manner in which Orsino intends to return it to him. He bites back, worries the man’s lip with the sharp edges of his teeth. His answering groan is enough to finally bring the smile back to Orsino’s face. “You’ve changed your mind then, about me only fucking you with my fingers?” he murmurs into his mouth, carding his fingers through Samson’s messy hair.

“Fuck me however you want,” Samson gasps, and writhes beneath Orsino, arching up into his touch, “as long as it’s you, I don’t care.”

Orsino inhales sharply, presses another heated kiss the man’s lips. Samson’s hands are too good, exerting just the right amount of pressure that Orsino can already tell this won’t last nearly as long as he wishes. He sighs when one of Samson’s short nails grazes the edge of his earlobe. “Maker, Raleigh. You’re too good to me.” He drags his hands down again, over solid muscle and down until he can palm the man’s soft, spent cock again. “And  _ this  _ doesn’t bother me. Doesn’t and won’t. If I ever need you to fuck me, your hands have already been proven adept at swinging a sword,” he says with a small smirk, kissing Samson again before he can utter protest or laughter. 

He pulls back as his heart beats faster, anticipation building in every breath as he pulls his hand away from Samson to call oil to his palm. The sensation of it, slick and warm as he touches his own cock for the first time tonight is enough to make Orsino whimper. He strokes himself perfunctorily, tries not to let the arm holding him still-curled over Samson’s form shake too much. 

Samson brings his knees up again, spread out as Orsino leans down to kiss along the man’s collar bone, his nipple. He bites, sharp and quick. 

“Aw,  _ fuck _ , ‘Sino,” Samson groans softly, and his hands claw briefly into Orsino’s shoulders.

Orsino licks in pseudo-apology, doesn’t miss the way Samson’s breath is hitching already. He pulls his hand away from his cock, pressing against the man’s entrance to rub soothing, wet circles. Another hitched breath. “Can I?” 

* * *

“Fuck,  _ yes,” _ Samson groans, clutching his shins, nails digging into the bulge of his calves where he has pulled them up hard against his thighs.  His eyes had closed as Orsino knelt back onto his haunches to slick himself up, but now they open, and he looks between his legs, pulling them a little higher.  “Wanna watch, wanna see you put it in me,” he gasps, and Orsino looks sharply up at him, his cock glistening slightly in the silvery magelight.  Samson feels wound impossibly tight, hyper-focussed, every detail bright and new – the way the light seems to twist slightly as if it were caught in an unfelt wind; the way a fine sheen of sweat sits at Orsino’s hairline, the slightly rough, clammy feeling of the cotton sheets under his naked back.  “Love you, ‘Sino,” he moans, and Orsino smiles, sitting up a little, one hand going to Samson’s shin, just below where his own hand is.  “Ready?” he asks, and Samson nods.

Slowly, Orsino pushes into him, eyes on his task, and Samson’s mouth drops open.  His grip tightens briefly on his shins, nails suddenly painful, and then he forces his hands to relax, to allow him to concentrate on the feeling of Orsino filling him.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, the sibilant hiss and the long vowel pulled out in the extremity of his arousal, but when Orsino pauses and looks up, concerned, Samson smirks with his eyes half-closed.  “Don’t stop.  Don’t ever stop.”

* * *

_ Fuck, the look on your face… _ Orsino has to reach a hand around the base of his cock as Samson meets his eyes. That damnable smirk, those words, send a sudden burst of heat through him and Orsino clenches down because despite everything, he just very nearly came before the second round began. He leans forward, drops his forehead against the man’s chest. “Damn it, R’leigh,” he keens, voice muffled against his skin. “I can’t- you’re so…” he trails off, breathes for a long moment, and lets go of himself. His other hand skims over Samson’s shin, cards through the hair up his thigh to rest on the man’s hip as Orsino slowly pulls back, careful as he monitors Samson’s breathing and pulse against his cheek. It takes effort not to tremble as he pushes in again, the slick passage around his cock – tight and hot and so very, very good. He finds himself stroking up and down Samson’s thigh, pressing wet kisses to his chest and collarbone as far as Orsino can reach as his cock sinks all the way to the base. 

He feels the moment Samson begins to relax under his treatment – Orsino’s movement becomes easier as the muscles loosen and the man beneath him releases a pleased groan. 

“Aw, c’mon, ‘Sino,” Samson pants, “you… you can be a little rougher than that.  Don’t…  _ aw, fuck _ , don’t hold back, old man.”

Orsino smiles against Samson’s skin, his only answer before he pulls out and thrusts back in, a little harder, a little faster, building so he has to brace a hand on the bed for leverage, the other dragging at Samson’s hip. He gets lost in the moment, pays little mind as his breaths grow shorter, Samson’s hands clench in his hair. There is only the join of their bodies, the flare of heat and lust burning in his gut and Samson, gasping under him. Samson, arching into every thrust with small, stifled moans. 

Orsino looks up to see Samson biting at his hand again in a desperate attempt to muffle the sound. “‘leigh,” he gasps. The sight is too much; he needs to kiss him, needs that mouth on his right  _ now.  _ He brings a hand to the back of Samson’s neck, tries to pull him to Orsino’s mouth, but he doesn’t have the strength to curve the man’s torso off the bed. “Lee, kiss me. Kiss me, please.”

* * *

He struggles up onto his elbows, deaf to everything but those words, the sound of Orsino’s voice, the sound of his name in Orsino’s mouth,  _ fuck _ it feels good, not just the… not just,  _ fuck fuck fuck _ the way he’s moving but everything, the feel of his hand on Samson’s neck, the stick of their slick chests and bellies,  _ Maker _ , he’s… he can’t move fast enough, his muscles are all protesting and he almost laughs, thinking,  _ more exercise than I’ve had in awhile _ .  Even as their mouths meet, wet and hungry and messy, he shifts again, a hand going once more to Orsino’s hair.  And Maker but it feels so  _ good _ , Orsino thrusting into him a little harder now, he can’t see because of the position Orsino’s holding him in but ah, he can remember it, the sight of that gorgeous cock sliding into his body, and  _ yes _ it is good, and Orsino is, he is so perfect, Samson shifts his hips forward and back, trying to encourage Orsino to thrust a little harder, he wants to feel Orsino deep, wants to be able to feel him the next day.  Something inside him twists a little, something here, just under his heart and he gasps, pulls away from Orsino, suddenly feeling close to tears.  “Sino,” he whimpers, his voice high pitched, almost a sob. “‘Sino, don’t… stop, don’t stop, please.  I love you, Maker  _ fuck _ , I love you, fuck me harder, I love you.”

* * *

It’s difficult to suck in precious air between them, their breaths intermingling, teeth clacking as Orsino pushes further, tries to get impossibly closer. He speeds his thrusts, hips and thighs aching with the effort. 

They’re being loud, he knows, louder than he’s ever dared before but he can’t bring himself to care as he bites at Samson’s lips, moans into him when their hips snap together hard again and a trembling heat builds behind his cock, in his stomach, reaches with lava-hot fingers through his skin. “Lee,” he whimpers into Samson’s kiss, tries to pull their faces even closer. “Love you, too. Please…” And he can tell he’s close, can feel his peak building with every thrust into the man’s welcome heat. “Please,” Orsino says again, reluctantly dropping his hand from the back of Samson’s neck so he can grip the man’s soft cock, tugging at it with fingers that slick with oil again after only a moment’s thought. Samson goes tighter around Orsino immediately, bucking under his touch and tense with the effort it takes not to fall back and break their kisses. “Maker, Raleigh. I’m so- so close. Please, want you to feel good. C-come for me, love?”

_ Yes _ , is all he wants to say.  But he can’t make his mouth make the word – though he doubts it matters.  From every fibre of his being he screams  _ yes _ without ever making the word; his hips snap up, every muscle within him clenching and releasing in a powerful roll, a crash and echo that sounds over and over.  He can feel his mouth open soundlessly, his eyes squeeze shut even as tears leak from the corners to run into his hair, the sweat on his chest cooling in the frigid air, his heels dig into the back of Orsino’s thighs as he thinks it, feels it –  _ yes. _  And there it is, that moment is upon him, he doesn’t even know at the end if he cries out, what he does, because it's there, it’s here within him, Orsino and he are the only two people in the whole world, and this man, Maker, this beautiful, brave, incredible man is all that matters, is everything that’s ever mattered.

From somewhere far off, he feels a deep warmth, a release, feels Orsino quicken his pace.  He hears the pant of the man’s breath, feels it gusting hot over the skin of his shoulder and he shivers, grinning.  His mind is a void, the satisfaction wiping everything away, and he sighs.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, “you now.  Please.”

* * *

Orsino barely registers Samson’s words as he tries to push faster, the heat of Samson’s spend on his hand sending darts of satisfaction through his fixation on the pressure as it builds. Samson’s hole clenches around him again and Orsino gasps, chasing the wave of heat as it reaches greater heights, crests, and-

Orsino releases a strangled gasp that could be Samson’s name, thrusting into blinding white as Samson pulls him in, legs pressed against his until Orsino can only push shallowly forward, the man’s fingers in his hair throwing bolts of pleasure back down his spine as he, finally, starts to slow. Orsino hisses when Samson touches his ears, oversensitized, but hums when the man goes back to stroking his scalp, brushing fingers over his neck then back up to the corner of his jaw. He turns into it with a smile, kissing Samson’s palm before he sits up and cautiously pulls out, trailing slick and come onto the bedsheets beneath them. 

He takes a moment to just look at the man, flushed and tear-stained, a small bruise blossoming over one nipple, seed smeared over his stomach where Orsino couldn’t catch it, hole puckered and leaking. It’s a sight he never wants to forget, one he will take pains to engrave on his memory through repetition. For now, Orsino takes pleasure in the knowledge he was the one who brought Samson to this. He reaches over the side of the bed, leaning only long enough to wipe his hand on his discarded trousers before he’s back between Samson’s legs.

“Raleigh,” he starts, the smile on his face evident in his voice as he leans back over the man, wipes away one of the tear tracks with his thumb. Then Orsino finds he has nothing more to say, so he just leans forward and kisses him, chaste, lovingly. 


	10. Chapter 10

“Uh huh?” Samson murmurs, grinning stupidly.  His smile only widens when Orsino kisses him, so gently, and he puts one hand on his back, the sweat under his palm.  Samson wants to speak, to tell Orsino that he loves him, that he was magnificent, to tease him a little, but finds he doesn’t have the energy.  So instead he sighs, squeezes his legs weakly around Orsino’s hips, and lets himself drift.

 

The tide is rising underneath the docks, the sky a sullen grey green.  Clouds roll in from the south east, fat and thunderous, and he hears the slap of the sea as it pitches itself against the pilings underneath him.  Samson stares out at the waves, whitecaps in rough flurries, the sound of a boat's moorings creaking in the hot, stale-smelling wind.  Kirkwall.  Almost as soon as the realisation of his surroundings enters his head, he feels it – the need, the feverish finger of it caressing under his skin, making it shiver, making it itch.  A little blue.  That’ll take the edge off things, that’ll make everything a little more-

_ We died for you, Raleigh Samson. _

 

Samson gasps, tension coursing through his body, vibrant and sickening.  He turns, glancing around, his eyes wide as he looks for the source of the accusation.  “Who’s there?” he calls, clenching his fists. “Come out, you bastard and…”

 

And out of the shadows, they come.

 

Coxson, who died of bloodloss and terror when the surgeon couldn’t take his leg in time and the wound’s putrefaction had spread to his heart.  Gerrick, who was given a double dose of red by accident and went raving and wheeling through one of the camps and had to be put down.  Henry, Masterson, Mathesin, Blake, dead by the sword, dead from a firebolt, dead when the change went wrong somehow.  Peters and Dunloppe and Tuttle; Smythe and Vikkers and Watersen.  Dead when the red’s poison had gone too deep, dead by an Inquisition arrow.  He knows them all.  And Maker, how they crowd in upon him, their eyes downcast, looking lonely and lost and frightened.  But he only has eyes for the person in the forefront of the group, the one with the pale grey eyes and the holy starburst brand on his forehead.

 

Maddox.

 

_ General, these are your men, _ the shade whispers, its head bowed, hands tucked up into its sleeves.  Its fellows walk slowly behind it, their feet shuffling on the old wood of the docks.  In his horror, Samson takes one step back, and another, but Maddox and his fellows continue to walk forward, and soon he will run out of room.   _ We died for you.  And here you are, giving yourself up to a maleficar, giving our brothers and sisters over to be experimented upon like so much meat.  We died for you, General – did our sacrifice mean so little?   _ They are almost upon him, Samson steps backward one last time – he feels his footing slip, the old wood underneath him breaks, and then he tumbles backward, panic rising within him as he falls, his arms stretching out to Maddox who only watches him fall with his soft, bland gaze.  He falls and falls, the air is depthless, forever and then-

 

Samson gasps, all his muscles screaming at him as he jerks awake, Orsino shifting quickly in his arms to sit up between his legs, catlike and concerned.  “Raleigh, what..?” he asks, but Samson’s hands are in his hair, he moves them down his forehead until the heels of his hands are pressed into his eyes.  “Nothing,” he mutters. “It was nothing.  Bad… bad dream, that’s all.”

* * *

He wants to ask, Samson’s shudders far too concerning to be dismissed, and yet – he’s already pried so much these past hours, levied so many confessions from the man it feels wrong to ask anything more. Instead, he slips to the side of the bed, taking his weight off Samson’s chest. Samson’s hands still cover his face, easy for Orsino to make out even after the magelight faded out as he slept. He slips an arm under Samson’s neck, cradles him towards Orsino while his free hand reaches to tug at one of the man’s hands. Samson doesn’t fight him, but the man’s eyes remain closed as Orsino presses a kiss to his knuckles, then his forehead. 

“I’m here if you want to talk about it?” Samson shakes his head minutely and Orsino does his best to squash the worry bubbling in his chest. He tugs the forgotten blanket to him, settles it over them both until they are pressed together in a cocoon of heat and Orsino moves up just enough he can tuck Samson’s head under his chin, embrace the bulk of the man to his much thinner frame. “Sleep, then. I will wake you if you have another.”

* * *

“Yeah,” Samson agrees, moving into Orsino’s touch.  He waits, eyes closed, until Orsino’s breathing slows, deepens, and he relaxes entirely.  Then Samson opens his eyes into the dark.

 

He doesn’t deserve this.  He doesn’t deserve this comfort, this warmth, this love.  Nothing in his life should have brought him to this moment.  He frowns slightly, then takes a deep, shuddering breath, exhaling quietly.  And the doubt comes rushing in again with the next breath, filling him, doubt and guilt.  

 

_ Stop overthinking it, _ he chides himself _ , he told you he loves you.  What else does it matter? _  But… does that mean that he cares for the Reds less?  Does that mean he’ll abandon them to their fates?   _ No _ , he thinks, the frown returning, and another, crueller part of his mind smirks and whispers,  _ Really?  It would be so easy.  Let them follow their own paths.  You abdicated responsibility when you gave them up to the Inquisition.  When you lost, when you caved to the cowardice of losing your life at Corypheus’ hands, when you bleated platitudes to the Inquisitor to… _

_ I did that to save them! _ he thinks furiously, and the little voice laughs.

_ Really?   _ it asks him again.  _ Because it sounded to me as if you were saving yourself.  As if you were worth saving. _

 

He has no more argument for it.  Orsino’s weight seems too close all of a sudden, the heat of their bodies together oppressive, and once more Samson closes his eyes.  He tries to will himself to relax, to succumb to sleep’s embrace, but finds his mind will not let him.  Eventually though, the heat, the exhaustion, the emotional upheaval of the night, it all works upon him, and he falls into an uneasy slumber.

* * *

Their morning is nothing to write about. Orsino has another cleansing to prepare for and Samson grumbles about having to meet with the Iron Bull again. He hums, says, “Tell him I will have the medical records compiled by this afternoon.” Samson nods his acknowledgement, redresses. They share a kiss, sweet but chaste, and go their separate ways. 

Later, he looks down at the Red Templar archer sitting atop his worktable, her slightly glowing eyes darting between Dagna, himself, the guards, the door, and back to Orsino. She didn’t struggle being brought in, but her fear is as evident as the red lyrium crystals twining up her face and arms. Her greaves, embedded with crystal spikes, had to be sawed off her by dwarves now very skilled in removing armor from those corrupted by lyrium. Orsino looks down at his parchment. “You are Sophie...Roux, correct?” She hesitates but nods, eyes now fixed on him alone. “Do you know what is happening here?” he asks softly, trying to soothe some of the terror he sees in her gaze.

Her thick Orlesian accent is overlaid by the disturbing double-echo that Orsino still finds unsettling. “Y-yes, ser. The Gen- Samson explained to us. You will...clean the red from us with...with…”

“With blood magic, yes,” he says, inclining his head. Miranda and Jim, standing behind the Templar, wear matching expressions of discomfort, but there is no fear in their eyes. They’ve witnessed the proceedings many times now under Orsino’s direction, making themselves available when he needs help restraining or transporting his patients. Sophie stares at him in blatant terror, clearly not expecting him to be so blasé about the matter. “You have two options, Serah Roux,” he sighs, far too familiar with the fight-or-flight reaction the woman is no-doubt experiencing. “You will submit to the cleansing by order of Inquisitor Sabrae and the agreement of your former general, or you will be executed for your crimes against Thedas and the Inquisition. Samson also explained this to you, yes?”

The red crystals on her face only make her sudden pallor more apparent. “Y-yes, ser.”

“Then will you consent to the procedure? Considering your slow rate of corruption, the likelihood of your survival of the process is not in doubt. It’s also highly likely that Dagna’s efforts will be able to save both your hands, though whether you will be able to wield a bow again is still in question.” He delivers all this in slow, calm tones – none of the Red Templars appreciate platitudes, in his experience. Probably why they followed Samson so staunchly; the man loathes the idea of platitudes.

The archer bows her head so Orsino is unable to see her expression. “Yes, ser,” she murmurs, barely audible over the rumble of the waterfall. 

Tension runs from his frame. He dreads the day one of the Reds will refuse to his face and he must tell Raleigh one of his men is to be sent to the chopping block. It’s bad enough that some have already chosen that route, but he is grateful no one has taken it so far as to shove their unwillingness to live rather than be healed by a maleficar in his face. “Very well. Do you have any questions before we begin?”

Roux looks up sharply, apparently not expecting this kindness from him. “I...will it hurt?”

“Yes,” he sighs. “I will do my best to make it painless, but we cannot render you unconscious or give you any pain reliever until it comes time to actually remove the growths. Will you be able to endure?” 

A sneer, then. “As if growing these,” she gestures at the spikes of red on her face, “was something easy? No, I...I can do it.”

Orsino nods. “Please pull off your shirt and lie down on the table, then.” As she does, he turns to the guards. “I can put the restraints on her, myself. You’re free to go  – I will call for you when it’s over.” Miranda and Jim salute him, walking quickly away. He has little doubt they will be in the Herald’s Rest, drinking heavily before the night is out. He approaches Roux, who twitches when he snaps the manacles around her wrists and ankles but doesn’t speak. “Are we ready?” he queries of Dagna. The woman nods, handing him a jar and a knife. 

“New jar today! The last one is starting to get a little full. We’ll have to wait until the Inquisitor gets back for her to dispose of it.” Orsino hums, pulls up his sleeves. He neither knows nor wants to know how Merrill destroys the Blight once it’s been extracted.

“Let us begin, then.”

* * *

Samson grunts, and rubs a hand over his eyes.  “Yeah well,” he tells the soldier in front of him, “we won’t know until the second battalion comes up from the Wilds, will we?”  He sighs, barely concealing his annoyance.  “How many did we lose yesterday in the camps?”

“Fourteen, ser.  The behemoths are the worst, they’re too full of the red now,” the woman says.  She used to be a hunter up in Val Fermin, he knows, but her name keeps eluding him.  Dalle?  Yeah.  That seems familiar – Antonine Dalle.  He’d never met her before the Inquisition had brought them up to Skyhold, but the Reds are a tight knit group these days.  He shakes his head and smiles ruefully.  “Not ser.  Just Samson now, alright?” 

Dalle nods, lifting her eyes from the floor of his room briefly to study him.  He looks quizzically back and asks softly, “Something you wanted to say?”

She shakes her head, then swallows.  He waits, and finally she blurts, “What’s going to happen to us?  I... I’m…  _ Flammes sacrées,  _ that mage, that  _ maleficar _ , he’s something not right, I’m sure!  He’s not healing us, him and the witch – those two knife ears! – that’s what they teach ‘em, isn’t it?  They’re  _ using  _ us, some sort of sick experiment, they… they don’t even believe in the Maker, it’s..!”

 

“Dalle.  Stop,” he growls, and rises from behind the desk.  The crystals in her cheek sparkle in the low light, and she shifts, blinking pinkish eyes at him.  “He’s the one giving us a second chance.  He’s the one giving us a fucking  _ option _ .  Because there is a choice here, and never you forget what it is.  You can submit to the cleansing and after that you get on with whatever life remains to you if it all works out.  Or you can take the headsman's ax.  Up to you.”

 

The silence hangs in the air, heavy and sudden.  He narrows his eyes, studying her expression – this is more than just the generalised mistrust that many of the Reds have exhibited.  The panic in her tone is something more than the nervous ranting he’s already received.  “Hang on,” he says abruptly, as a mental image occurs to him. “You’re with that… ah, damn it, what’s her name..?”

The woman’s lip trembles, and he sees her jaw work for a moment before she swallows and lifts her chin.  When she speaks again, her voice is clear, steady, “Sophie.  Yes.  We were together at Val Fermin.  We were in the same unit in Sahrina as well.”

Samson nods.  “She’s in today, isn’t she?”

Dalle nods miserably and crosses her arms over her chest.  “Yes,” she tells him simply, and shakes her head.  “And if he lets her die, I will kill him.”

 

“Right,” Samson says softly.  Frowning, he walks out from behind the desk to stand in front of her.  Dalle stands in sullen silence for a while, then lifts her eyes to his, and he smiles slightly as he narrows his eyes. “Orsino doesn’t  _ let _ anyone die, let’s get that straight.  It’s a battle – and you know we can’t win every battle.  From what I hear, Sophie’s tough.  And if she knows you’re on the other side, then she’ll fight harder.”  He sniffs and lifts his chin.  “She might not make it, and you gotta prepare for that.  If she doesn’t…”  He clenches his jaw and she stares at him, still looking miserable.  “Then you’ll have to deal with that.  The world will go on turning.  But until you know for sure, you can go to the infirmary and get Max to give us a report.  Bring it back to me when you’re done.  After that, you go wait for her in the infirmary.  Tell Max I sent you, get the report and check with him it’s alright.”  He smiles slightly and adds,  “She’ll look like shit when she comes in, but trust me,” he swallows, remembering his own recovery, “If you hold her hand, then she’ll know you’re there.  That’s the bit you can help with.  Gettin’ her well again.”  He clenches his jaw and she stares at him. “Dismissed.”  She lifts her chin, nods curtly, before turning and striding from the room.

 

Samson stands for a moment, then rubs his hands over his face, sighing.  He can smell Orsino on his hands, feels his guts clench at the remembered feel of their bodies together. The door opens again, and he pulls his hands away from his face to ask the Qunari, “Don’t you ever fuckin’ knock?”

Bull chuckles.  “Saw one of yours coming down the corridor.  You know they can’t be seen leaving here, not alone.”  He narrows his one eye and folds his arms over his chest.  “Everything alright?”

“Yeah, fine,” Samson tells him and sighs again, “Her girl’s in today.  Bit nervy, is all.”  He snorts and rolls his eyes before telling Bull, “I missed the part where the Inquisition had a shitload of guards to spare.  Your Nightingale's gotta realise – you can’t watch everyone all the time.  At some point, you gotta have a little faith that a death sentence will be enough to keep people in line.”

Bull nods, looking thoughtful, then sighs.  “Yeah, I know.  Rules are rules though – and it’s just as much for their protection – and yours – as it is for our safety.  Plus, it might help bond a few up, you know?  Make sure they know about it – don’t wanna see it again.”  He smiles a little, then, without asking, comes and sits on the bed.  Samson frowns at him slightly, and shrugs, then retraces his steps back behind the desk.  

“Got that list you wanted,” he says, and yawns.

 

Bull arches an eyebrow.  “You sleepin’ alright?” he asks, and Samson snorts.

“Yeah,” he says, knowing he sounds defensive, “What’s it to you?”

“Lookin’ after your stupid ass, that’s all,” Bull says, and something in his expression shifts.  Samson frowns at him, then moves the paper around on the desk, locating the piece that he wanted.  He crosses the room, handing it to Bull, who nods his thanks and sits for a moment longer, perusing it.  As he does, Samson watches him, then asks, “You reckon you’ll take ‘em?”

“We’ll see,” Bull says without looking up.  “Probably.  Have to see how the health shit checks out.”

Samson nods, resting his arse on the edge of the desk.  He waits, wondering if Bull has anything more for him.  But when Bull rises, he grins and shrugs.  “Hey, you wanna come out to the yard again?  Krem reckons he’s got a move that’ll knock you flat.”

He can’t help it – his eyebrows rise, and he nods.  “Yeah.  Alright then,” Samson laughs a little, then asks, “You teach him to block yet?”

“Not yet,” Bull confesses, and laughs as well, “Still.  Between us, I reckon we’ll get there.”

“Yeah,” Samson agrees, walking toward the door with Bull, “I reckon so too.”

* * *

The inkwell is dry. Orsino sighs and sets his quill down. He hasn’t the energy to go looking for more ink, even to acquire some from the quartermaster. It’s no matter – the medical reports are finished, he was merely outlining fine details. If the Iron Bull needs more, he can ask for them. 

It feels like every bone in his body creaks protest when Orsino finally manages to pry himself out of the hard chair. He cracks his neck, setting a paperweight over the corner of the last parchment as it dries. He needs sunlight and fresh air, something to rejuvenate him after a long day of magical exertion and writing. Orsino can only be grateful for whatever enchantment still lingers in Skyhold’s foundation, keeping the worst of the cold and snow outside the walls.

Because of this, walking out to the garden feels more akin to an early spring day than the middle of winter. A stone bench under one of the trees beckons him, just far enough off the main path Orsino doesn’t have to worry about being stared at by loitering nobles or interacting with any but the friendliest of soldiers. Orsino settles with a sigh, pausing for a moment.  _ Damn, I forgot to bring a book. _ But it’s little matter. If he has to read one more Dwarven text about the difference in properties of lyrium when mined at specific depths, he’ll start ripping his hair out.  _ There’s no way I will leave this bench until I have to _ , his body seems to say with every aching muscle, tired from bloodloss and his exertion the night before. He gives in, leaning back on his hands and allowing his mind to wander as his eyes drift over the other people in the garden. 

There’s a nobleman smoking a pipe by the well, Orlesian by his ridiculous mask and checkered leggings. Orsino wrinkles his nose, glancing down at his own trousers. One of the first things he’d discarded upon fleeing Kirkwall were the robes – too ornate, inhibiting movement, far too impractical for the wilds of the Marches. The extra mobility saved his life from a Templar blade more than once before Redthorne was established. 

He looks up again, glancing over a young elven woman attending the herb garden – Dalish by the looks of her – and a middle-aged man with grey at his temples chatting with a stout woman near one of the stone pillars-

Orsino’s thoughts stutter as his gaze drags back to the man. He stands with his weight on one leg as though he favors the other, his hair a dull brown and Orsino can see the shape of the tip of his nose but not the man’s eyes from where he sits. He sits up slowly, careful not to move too fast and potentially draw anyone’s gaze. Then the man turns his head and Orsino feels any peace he might have built shatter in the wake of roaring, explosive rage. 

The man may have longer, greyer hair, may have grown a beard and changed his robes for more practical everyday wear, but Orsino would recognise Samuel Murray’s face anywhere.  _ TRAITOR _ , a voice in the back of his head screams. Memories of hunting down the only other person with known Circle contacts in Redthorne, of terrifying a confession out of the mage all flood back. Orsino sucks in a sharp breath, nails digging into his palms as he fights not to manifest fire in his hands and obliterate the traitorous scum where he stands. 

He wants to, oh how he longs to destroy the mage who brought the Templars down on them weeks before their defences were complete. They lost no one to the first attack, but the one after, and the one after that… Their small safe-haven’s location was given away before it had a chance to bloom. He yearns to kill Samuel Murray, but he can’t. The man’s judgement has already been passed. If he pulls up one pant leg, Orsino wouldn’t be surprised to see the leg the man favors covered in deep, gouging scars created by Merrill’s thorns. 

Orsino stands, looks away from Murray, and slowly strides back to the door that takes him to the Great Hall. If anyone calls out to him, tries to draw his attention, Orsino doesn’t notice. He stares straight ahead, walks with a purposeful stride through the corridors that take him down, down to the dark and his quarters and  _ safety _ . 

He reaches the door to his room with no hassle, the array unbroken. With shaking hands Orsino walks in, closes the door. He reactivates the array with as much mana as he can pour into it.  _ You’re safe. It’s Skyhold, there’s nothing he can do here, not to the entire Inquisition. You’re  _ **_safe_ ** , he tries to tell himself over and over.  _ Safe, safe, safe. _

But the fear and the rage are too much, boiling in him. Already he can hear whispers in the back of his mind, demons trying to hook their claws into the feelings and drag their way through the Veil. 

Orsino shoves them away with a flurry of thought, razor-edged and terrible. He pants, nearly hyperventilating as he drowns in the tide of his own creation. He needs to let it out – something non-magic, something safe… his eyes land on the ewer and basin and in a flash he is there, picking up both objects with fingers that can barely grip them through the tremors. 

With a scream of primal rage, he throws one after the other, shattering them against the opposite wall.

_ Safe, safe, safe please let us be safe _ -

* * *

Samson whistles through his teeth as he walks – guard in tow as per Bull’s instructions – back to his quarters.  The stone echoes with his footsteps and the vacant, tuneless drone of the whistle. It had been a good session.  The lieutenant, that Aclassi, did indeed manage to get him on his arse, but couldn’t manage the same feat twice.  Brennan and Lucas had been there too; good to see them both looking better.  Brennan’s right arm was growing stronger after Orsino and the Inquisitor had had to shred the muscle from it during his cleansing.  And Lucas had shown Samson some maps he’d been making for one of the Nightingale’s agents – Samson had clapped him on the back, impressed with the lad’s initiative.  But in spite of the look of health he has, Lucas still carries a nasty cough, and Samson could not help wondering if he was quite out of the woods yet. 

 

Samson lifts his eyes, startled suddenly from his reverie, and realises that this is the corridor that Orsino’s quarters are on.  Briefly, he wonders if the guard will let him slip inside for a moment.   _ He’s probably got the blasted security whats-it on _ , Samson thinks ruefully, smiling slightly at the thought of leaving a note for Orsino, detailing some of the rather filthy daydreams Samson had been having.  Ah well.  It’ll have to wait until they can steal a moment together; maybe if Samson tells him in person, blows it in a whisper into his ear, maybe he’ll get to try…

 

There is a crash from inside Orsino’s room, and an inarticulate cry – of rage or pain, Samson cannot tell.  “...The fuck?” he mutters, and before he knows it, he’s hurrying the few remaining steps to the door, past the guard who pulls at his elbow.  “Gerroff,” he growls, then hammers on the door. “Sino?  Orsino!  You alright in there?”

* * *

It takes several long, heartstopping moments to recognise the voice on the other side of the door, panting and with blood rushing in his ears. “Raleigh?” Orsino croaks, tries to straighten from where he’s hunched against the far wall. The security array glows from the man’s touch against the door, lit bright blue around the edge with a haze of purple-green in the center.  _ No ill-intent, turbulent emotion, fear/concern.  _ Then the lock clicks open when Samson tries the handle. Orsino closes his eyes against the realization that filters through – if the array let him pass, it is only because his mana recognizes and trusts the man, completely. 

“‘Sino?” Footsteps start forward, stop when they crunch on the shattered ceramic that litters his doorway. “Maker’s Balls… you alright?”

“First Enchanter-” another voice starts, one he doesn’t recognise. Orsino flinches, fighting down the instinct to attack the intruder of his private space. It doesn’t work completely – he can feel the heat building in his palms as fire tries to manifest. The scab on his arm twinges, blood pushing hard against the confinement of his body. Every part of him trembles and Orsino presses himself against the wall. 

“Get out.” He almost doesn’t recognize his own voice, hoarse and cold as the desert night.

“First Enchanter, do you need a healer?” 

He hears Samson scoff. “You heard him.  Fuck off.  You can wait outside if you really wanna, but get your arse out of here.”  His tone is iron, and though the guard frowns at Samson, he obeys without question. 

Orsino focuses on his breath, tries to pull the mana away from his hands but he can’t fully concentrate until the door clicks shut and the array lights up once more.  _ Safe, safe, we’re safe here _ . “‘Sino?” Samson calls again, cautiously stepping over the shards toward him. Orsino manages to let go of the magic with a shuddering gasp, sagging back against the wall as some of the tension seeps out of him, Samson’s presence a balm on his fraying temper. He runs a hand down his face, holds the other out to the man. 

Part of him is surprised when Samson takes it, considering he just witnessed Orsino nearly lose control. The other part of him is just intensely grateful for the contact of that large hand curling around his. “Lee,” he tries, swallows. Asks: “Did you know, after Meredith, I never thought there would be another person I’d be happy to tear apart with my own two hands?”

* * *

He’s never seen Orsino like this before.  The broken pottery, that awful rage-filled cry, the way the Fade sings in the room, so high and brittle even Samson can hear it, it all accumulates to an image of a man on the brink.  He holds Orsino’s hand in both of his now, careful not to squeeze too tight, careful to keep his presence soothing.  Slowly, he shakes his head.  “No,” he says simply, addressing the question and nothing more.  “I never did.”

 

He studies Orsino, wanting to reach out, to gather him in his arms – hold him close and reassure him somehow.  What has gone on here?  Samson swallows down the question and waits.  Orsino’s expression is thoughtful, quite removed from his previous statement and the sentiment which has caused this chaos.  He takes a deep, shuddering breath in, holds it, then exhales.  Samson drops his eyes to Orsino’s hand, strokes his thumbs along the ridges of the fine bones he can feel inside it.  He feels something damp on his fingertips, curled underneath Orsino’s hand, resting on his palm and frowns slightly, beginning to turn Orsino’s hand over.  But when he sees the blood seeping from under the half-healed flesh, it’s all he can do not to gasp.

 

Instead, he bites his tongue, counts to five, trying to calm himself.  Still Orsino is silent – still Samson holds his hand, doing his best not to react; because now, he is becoming angry.  Angry at whatever, whoever, has made Orsino feel this way; angry at the Inquisitor for committing Orsino to the path that he is on, and then abandoning him to such a taxing workload; and angry at himself more than anything for being the catalyst, for creating the events which put them on this course in the first place.  Silence, and silence, and silence still, until eventually, Samson cannot stand it any longer.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, “do you want me here?  Is there anything you need?”

* * *

Orsino blinks, finally looks Samson in the eyes and sees the concern, and the anger, and… Orsino has to shut his eyes again because he hopes, prays  _ Maker please no _ to a god he doesn’t believe in that the last thing he reads there is caution and not fear. The last, absolute last thing he wants in this world is for Samson to be afraid of him. 

“Stay, please stay.” His voice cracks with desperation starting to smother the anger in its wake. “I don’t- I need you to stay. Maker, Raleigh, I can’t-” he swallows. “I don’t feel safe here, not with…”

Samson is quiet for a moment, obviously waiting for him to speak, the furrow between his brows deepening as he tries to puzzle it out.  Finally, he asks, “With what?  Can you tell me?  I’m no good at guessin’.”

Orsino squeezes Samson’s hand, takes a breath as the motion of Samson’s fingers clasped over his finally starts to soothe him the slightest bit. “Samuel Murray stands unfettered in Skyhold’s gardens, like he has any right to live...to act like he didn’t almost destroy everything I fought for.” He shudders, leans his head back against the cool stone. “I should have convinced Justice to cut out his tongue, at least,” Orsino murmurs to himself.   

* * *

Samson’s frown deepens for an instant, and he shifts from foot to foot.  The name seems familiar, but… should he ask?  He takes a breath, struggles with his memory for a little longer, then gives it up as a bad job.  “I’m sorry, ‘Sino,” he murmurs, “who is that again?”

Orsino tilts his head to look back at him, eyes sharp and still filled with an anger that prickles at Samson’s spine. “Don’t worry. It was…over a year ago now, I’m not surprised you don’t recall, when I only mentioned him once, but… Murray was a Senior Enchanter at Starkhaven and a...secret Loyalist, I suppose. He was useful, had some contacts in other Circles that I didn’t, so he was permitted use of one of the two ravens we had at the time.” Orsino sucks in a breath, lets it out slow but still slightly uneven. “It’s how the Templars found us so quickly. He- that bastard didn’t even wait a fortnight to betray Redthorne’s location to Lambert.”

“Shit,” Samson breathes and unconsciously grips Orsino’s hand a little tighter.  He doesn’t know what to say – though he feels that old guilt suddenly wrap itself around his heart.  Samson takes another deep breath, holds it, and asks, “What can I do?”

Orsino barks a laugh that dies as soon as it begins. He finally pushes away from the wall and- just leans, his forehead a warm weight pressed against Samson’s collarbone. “There’s not much either of us can do. His judgement has been passed, and much as I loathe it, I respect Redthorne’s decisions too much to exact...revenge, I suppose. In the end, all I can do is alert the Nightingale of his presence and history. That is, if she doesn’t already…” he trails off and the next moment Samson almost stumbles when Orsino yanks his hand away and swears. “Maker, Samson, I- fuck, I’m so sorry. You’ve got it all over you.” His face is suddenly pale, a look of deep shame crossing it as he claps his other hand over the open wound. 

* * *

Samson cannot help himself – he laughs and raises his eyebrows at Orsino.  “You daftie.  You think this is the first time I got blood on me?” He chuckles a little, ignoring the squirm in his stomach at the feeling of vague disgust.  “Nothin’ to bother about.  Blood washes off.”  He looks concerned for a moment, then cocks his head, examining Orsino’s expression. “Nah.  I’m worried about you.  When was the last time you had a day off?  You been workin’ yourself into the ground, sweetheart.”

The elf blinks, still looking down at Samson’s hand and the blood starting to stain his sleeve. “What?” It takes another moment for him to respond, the subject shift obviously a little too much for his state of mind. “A day off? I...I take a rest day every week.”

“Ooh, a  _ whole day _ ,” Samson says, and sighs.  “Look.  It’s not… it’s not like I don’t appreciate what you’re doin’ for us.  I do.  We all do.  All my boys, I mean.”  He sighs, a short, harsh gust of breath from his nose, knowing that that statement is not entirely true, then continues, not looking at Orsino as he says, “But this has gotta be takin’ it out of you.  I mean… I don’t know shit about magic and the way that it works.  But even I know that usin’ that much… y’know.  That much blood… it’s not exactly… I mean, your body… it needs some time, ‘Sino.”  He looks at the other man’s face briefly, but doesn’t analyse the look too deeply before he shifts his gaze away again.  “I dunno.  I feel like this Murray thing is just another thing, on top of everything else.”

“Another thing and another, and every day that passes more of your people die. I can’t let that happen, Raleigh. I just- they’re still people and they’re important to you… Maker, I sound like such a hypocrite right now.” Orsino sighs tiredly, rubs his hands together. But instead of smearing blood everywhere, a shower of rust-colored flakes falls from between his fingers.   Samson frowns in confusion, looking at the substance, then gapes.  He reaches forward, taking Orsino’s hand gently, and turns it over – healed.  He blinks, then grins.  “Neat trick,” he murmurs, then shakes his head.  “Nah.  You’re not a hypocrite.  Well…”  he smiles, “not really.  And if you are, then what does that make me?”  His guts clench as he tries to stop himself saying the next words, but this is  _ Orsino _ , and his brutal honesty wins out over his guilt at saddling the man with even more. “I mean… I… I think you mean more to me now… more than…”

 

But he cannot finish the phrase.  Samson looks at his hand, still holding Orsino’s, and sighs.  “Anyway,” he says quietly, “you want me to come with you, if you wanna talk to that Bird-Lady?”  He smiles and narrows his eyes at Orsino’s confusion, “Nightingale.  You know.”  He chuckles and shakes his head. “Trying’ to be funny.  Guess it didn’t work.”

* * *

The self-mocking tilt to Samson’s words is enough to finally wring a dry chuckle from Orsino’s mouth.  _ This. This is why I love you _ , he thinks, still lingering on that phrase. 

_...More than... _

He reaches out to touch Samson’s hand again, drawing a small burst of mana from his fingertip to the slowly-staining sleeve of the man’s tunic. He didn’t even think when he cleaned up before, the habit ingrained from so many cleansings and his hands soaking in blood; if he had thought, he’d never have dared when it felt too much like shoving something… iniquitous in the man’s face. But Samson looked at him with wide eyes, touched him with no fear but an expression closer to fascination. The blood on Samson’s hand and sleeve dries immediately, pulls away from skin and fabric to drift to the floor. Then he moves forward to embrace the man tightly, trying to pour every ounce of his appreciation for him into the hug. 

“I would feel...more secure if you come with me, I think,” he says, words muffled against Samson’s collarbone. Orsino turns his head, presses a kiss to a spot on Samson’s neck he can reach without tiptoeing. “Thank you, Raleigh.”

“No bother,” Samson smirks down at him, and shrugs.  He bends down closer to Orsino, and kisses him lightly on the mouth, hovering for a moment as if he will make more of it, then smiles ruefully.  “Still got that bloody guard outside.  Guess we should tell him we’re off to the bird-lady.”


	11. Chapter 11

They return from the tower in which the Nightingale directs the Inquisition’s secret affairs as the moon is rising over the eastern parapets.  The sky is deep violet, the stars beginning to wink into existence.  From deep within the stone walls, Samson hears the bells which announce a meal – though from the emptiness of the yard, he would guess that most of Skyhold’s denizens are already there.  He smiles a little and glances at Orsino quickly, then reaches out, clasping his hand briefly.  “How you feelin’ now?” he asks cautiously.

The man sighs, twists his hand around to squeeze Samson’s back for a moment. “Drained, understandably I’m sure. Hungry as well, but-” he looks to the light pouring out the windows of the Great Hall and makes a face.

Samson grins.  “Got some friends in the kitchens these days,” he says idly, looking around at the flourishing garden. “Might be able to wrangle something, if you wanted to come see where the Inquisitor’s put me.  Got my own room now,” he tells Orsino, then laughs.  “Well, I had one before, but it was a bit bloody drafty for my liking.  I’ve never gone in for prison chic.”

“What.” Orsino says flatly, stopping in his tracks. “You’ve...been sleeping in the dungeons for the past month?” He looks at Samson, at the unfaltering grin on his face, and pulls away to cover his face with both hands. “ _ Raleigh _ , why didn’t you say anything? They’ve constructed a whole new barracks building for the Templars.”

“ _ Red _ Templars,” Samson corrects, his grin fading slightly.  “The others don’t really like it when we’re all lumped in together.”  He sighs.  “Yeah, I knew it.  But… I didn’t wanna take up space if one of the boys was gonna need it.  And… you got enough to do.  I’m old enough and ugly enough that I can look after myself.”

“Don’t!” Orsino says sharply, looking up at him with eyes that shine in the flickering torchlight. “I won’t listen to you put yourself out like this. And besides that, Merrill had a very specific plan. If this level of sheer neglect can slip by with the  _ General _ , what do you think is happening with the foot soldiers? The former Horrors who are so easy to spot, to single out from the rest? Damn it, Lee. This is a serious problem.”

“Hey, hey,” Samson stops and turns to face Orsino. “Nobody’s neglecting nothing, alright?  We lost, ‘Sino.”

“Yes, and now you’re members of the Inquisition, conscripted or otherwise. I know the Reds hate mages. Things are never going to change if-”

“Hold up,” Samson tells him sharply, and the note of command in his voice is suddenly so present that it draws Orsino up short.  “The Inquisition isn’t required to treat us, it’s not required to do anything with us.  And honestly, there was a lot of talk that clemency… I mean, fuck, now half of us don’t know what to do with ourselves.  It’s… I mean, I get it, I think – the Inquisit… Merrill, she needs to do what she thinks is right, and don’t think for a second that I don’t appreciate it.  She saved my life.  But…” he smiles in confusion and opens his hands out, palm up, “what do I do after the war is over?  Become a farmer?  Fuck that.  A cobbler, like my old man?  All I ever done is war, one way or another, Orsino.”  He sighs, unhappily, wondering how he can turn the conversation away from this channel.  “Look,” he says slowly, “You’re right.  Nothin’’s ever gonna change if we keep drawin’ the same old lines in the sand.  But… unless…”  he pauses, bites his lip, and reaches out toward Orsino. “I mean, I dunno.  I’m just some old stupid Templar.  But… maybe… maybe the time has come where… we need to show ‘em that things can be different.  Somehow.”  He tries to smile, even as his throat tightens, even as he wonders how on earth that could be – different still seems like a dream.

Orsino takes the proffered hand. “Yes, I… I know I may seem somewhat...naive, even now. But I can’t help but hope that someday things  _ will _ be different, that we’ll all get that choice in our futures without someone always coming out of the blue to burn everything we’ve built.” He smiles, then, looks up at Samson with a teasing curl to his mouth. “That maybe someday you’ll get a chance to learn how to cobble shoes.”

Samson chuckles and pulls on the hand he holds so tenderly, pulling Orsino forward, into his arms.  “You fuckin’ nug,” he says affectionately, “Let’s find something to eat.”

* * *

Orsino sighs, pressing his face into Samson’s shoulder as he starts to drift. The cot in Samson’s quarters is even narrower than Orsino’s bed, but thankfully the ticking is fresh and there’s just enough room that he can lay on his side next to the man without fear of falling off the cot. The room is small too, but he can’t bring himself to complain when at least the floor is clean of any shards of crockery. Humming, he settles further into Samson’s embrace as the man tightens the arm slung over his waist. “I need to order stoneware from Redthorne,” he mutters to himself absently, drawing a hand over Samson’s scarred back to settle at a point just under his shoulder blade.

“Wha’?” Samson sighs into his neck, and pulls back fractionally, blinking at Orsino sleepily.  Then he grins. “Did you say something about kissin’ me?” 

Orsino snorts but tilts his head anyway, pressing a kiss to his mouth. “Just talking to myself,” he says when he pulls away, taking a moment to soak in the comfort of the situation. Both of them lie stripped to their trousers, stomachs comfortably full and blissfully warm after Orsino laid a temporary heating array on the floor.  

Samson yawns, then wriggles a little, nuzzling his nose into Orsino’s cheek.  “Sometimes that’s the only way to get a smart conversation,” he says, and smiles gently.  He narrows his eyes for a moment, seeming to come slightly more alert, then his expression shifts – almost becoming crafty.  “Hey,” he says slowly, “you wanna stay?”

Both eyebrows go up. “I thought that is what I was doing?”

“Good,” Samson grins, “‘cause I thought so too.  I was… kind of… checking.”  He sighs, relaxing further into Orsino’s embrace, then asks softly, “Do you like it when I touch your ears, or is it… I dunno… annoying?”

The question gives Orsino pause, then he starts to snicker. “Raleigh. The first time you touched my ears, I nearly spent myself in my pants. I think it’s safe to say ‘irritating’ isn’t the word you’re looking for.”

Samson laughs a little, and shifts in the bed.  “So… you don’t mind if I do it again, then?” The words alone are enough to send blood rushing to his face and cock in equal measure, said ears starting to burn under Samson’s gaze. 

“You’re infuriating,” Orsino tells him, matter of fact, and leans in to kiss him with a kindling hunger.

“Yeah, yeah,” Samson gasps, breaking the kiss all too soon to grin back at him.  “I mean, we  _ should _ probably sleep, but…”  the smile turns soft as he looks at Orsino, “You’re… I dunno.  You’re so…” Samson shrugs, looking at him for a brief moment before he snorts and rolls his eyes. “Fuckin’ articulate, right?  Kiss me again please, ‘Sino.”

His heart feels so light in the moment,  full of blissful warmth that buoys him up and toward Samson again. He presses tender kisses against his mouth, pulling away only to change the angle of his head, to capture Samson’s lip between his teeth and tug with just enough pressure that he hisses. The man retaliates by bringing a hand to Orsino’s ear, cupping the shell of it between his thumb and fingers and dragging them, slow and light, up to the tip. Orsino pulls away from his mouth with a keening moan – one he’d be embarrassed about if he couldn’t see the way Samson’s eyes are fixed on him, dark and full of intent. He does it again, the nail of his thumb scraping ever-so-slightly against his skin, and Orsino’s eyes droop shut of their own accord as heat washes from that point of contact, down the length of his body and pooling in his groin. He clutches at Samson’s back, sliding a leg over his hip and pulling himself flush against the man so Samson can see just how hard he’s made him. “Maker, Lee. If you keep doing that…”

* * *

 

“...what?” Samson mutters, closing his eyes briefly as Orsino straddles his hip, presses close to him. He can feel the slow roll of the other man’s hips against the crest of his thigh, feel the hardness of him pressing into his leg.  He leans forward, closer, until their lips brush again.  Soft, he kisses Orsino’s parted lips, his own curling slightly at the way the man pushes against him eagerly.   Fingers still moving gently along the curled ridge of the outer shell of Orsino’s ear, careful and delicate, Samson keeps the touch light.  The skin feels so vulnerable, so tight, that Samson… Maker, he wants to take it in his mouth, between his teeth, wants to blow all his secrets into Orsino’s ear, wants to kiss the skin behind the ear at Orsino’s hairline, wants and wants and  _ wants _ .  He draws in a deep breath, curls his hand into a fist, clenching the fingers hard and swallows.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, “I want you.  But we really gotta sleep.”

Orsino utters a noise which is little more than pure irritation, and Samson grins.  “I know.  I  _ know _ , alright?”  He sighs. “When I was walkin’ down here before, past your room, I wanted to write you something about…” he grunts slightly, shifts in the bed, Orsino’s body so close, so warm, wrapped so tightly around his. “I wanted to tell you all the things I been thinkin’ about.  ‘Sino, I think about you all the time.  How you feel, what you smell like, how you taste.  I keep, I keep thinkin’ about the way you looked between my legs the other night, the… I mean, you’re just… you’re so beautiful.  I want you all the time.  I wanna just… I wanna ride away from all this, with you, I wanna find some place where it’s just me an’ you.  Some place with trees, maybe a river or a little lake.  And…” he sighs, smiling slightly at the mental image, “I wanna walk outside with you when it’s raining, wanna see you all wet and dripping… wanna kiss you in the rain, get naked with you while it’s pourin’ down, want to press you up against a tree, old man, wanna hear the thunder while you pull my hair, while you fuck my mouth out there in front of the Maker and no one else.”  He swallows, the shallow aches of both desire and sadness curling and uncurling in constant motion within him, even as his tiredness makes his eyes heavy, too heavy to hold open.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs. “One day.  If you want.”  Samson squeezes Orsino to his chest gently, then chuckles.  “Sorry for teasin’.  Promise I’ll make it up to you.”

* * *

Lust clouds Orsino’s mind in a swath thick enough that it takes several moments for him to parse Samson’s words. The other man is drifting already, he can tell. It takes all Orsino’s self-control not to simply pinch him somewhere sensitive in retaliation for riling him up so fiercely, but Orsino refrains, fixing instead on Samson’s face – dark hair draped over his pale forehead, blinking slow and each time taking a little longer to open his eyes again. He’s obviously exhausted, and the elf knows that in all probability he looks worse.

Orsino sighs, loosens the grip of his leg over Samson’s, but doesn’t slide back. “I expect that you will,” he murmurs. Some disappointment lingers in him, driven by his libido Orsino is sure, but Samson does have a point – they both need rest. Bit by bit, he lets the tension seep out of his muscles, ignoring the ache of his insistent cock still pressed against Samson’s thigh. He brings a hand up to push the hair off Samson’s face, smiles when the man turns into it. “You’ll make up for it in interest, I assure you,” he says, tugging gently on a stray lock of hair. 

“Good,” Samson murmurs softly, smirking. “Lookin’ forward to it.”

Orsino kisses him again, can feel the lethargy that’s overcome the man seeping into him now. When he pulls away Samson’s eyes are closed, tension starting to fall from his face. In the interest of making things easier for him, Orsino waves a hand to stifle the torch that serves as their light. The room falls instantly to black, only the glow of a single rune in the heat array and the crack under the door rescuing it from complete darkness. 

It’s enough for Orsino to watch Samson as he smiles slightly, pulling Orsino against him once more. Within a few minutes the man’s breath falls even, his arm around Orsino’s waist gone warm and lax. 

_ I wanna ride away from all this, with you, I wanna find some place where it’s just me an’ you. _

He closes his eyes, lets the words wash over him with a smile as a few hot tears escape, dripping over his nose and cheek. He needs time, some way to muster the proper words – words more eloquent than,  _ Maker, me too _ . 

Orsino sleeps and he dreams of rain.

* * *

 

_ Samson. _

The voice is cold, awful, and it cuts through him like a knife.   _ He’s come, _ he thinks to himself,  _ He’s come and there’s nothing you can do but stand and take your punishment.  He wanted a vessel and you failed, you failed him you failed you failed and you know what happens to failures oh Maker Maker help me help me oh Maker no.   _ His mind runs on like a rat in a trap, even as his body stands rigid, there on the snowy shore of the lake at Sahrina.  It might have been pretty here, if it weren’t for the giant stands of red lyrium thrusting from the earth like so many poisoned fingers.  And that voice, it is  _ his _ voice, Samson wants to run, but instead he looks up, toward the clifftop which stands over the lake and there he is, garments fluttering in the wind, tall and cruel and full of purpose.

Corypheus.

_ He’s here, oh Maker, he’s here, he’s here, _ his mind gibbers,  _ please don’t make me go back, don’t make me, I don’t need it anymore, I don’t, please I can’t, oh pleaseplease no no No NO _

It overwhelms him, panic devouring his mind, legs thrashing as he sits upright, clawing at his chest – in the extremity of his terror he thinks he feels the huge, pointed growth of crystal jutting from his armour, armour he is convinced he is still wearing.  Sweat runs down his temple, and he bats it away, eyes large and round, scanning the dark room for any threat.  “Lee,” comes a murmur beside him, and he yelps, the twitch of fright so huge that he falls, out of bed and onto the stone floor.  There is a keening noise, Maker it’s loud, it’s all in his head and for a moment he thinks it’s the lyrium, the song of the red, and then he realises, even as the figure in the bed throws back the sheets and swings their legs out of it, even as he skitters across the floor, desperate to get away from it, he realises that it’s him, it’s _ himself _ , he’s the one making that noise, that desperate, high whine.  “No,” he moans, “no, don’t make me, I can’t, I can’t go back, I can’t.”

A bright white orb flares brilliantly in the darkness, and Samson covers his eyes and begins to sob, loud, panicked whoops of noise, tears coming fast and hot.  “Lee,” his name, that’s his name, spoken calmly, kindly, he knows that voice, that beautiful voice.  But his mind will not allow him to do anything just yet, so he scrambles within himself for any foothold, anything to pull himself away from this encompassing terror.   _ Floor’s cold _ , he thinks, and his mind latches onto it, the cold becoming a real thing to which he can cling to.  Slowly, he lowers his hands, keeping his eyes closed, and puts them to the chilly stone as well, feeling the texture of the stone under them.  His breathing is calmer, and slowly, very slowly, he blinks open his eyes.  There, sitting not half a pace away from him, is an elf.  A very worried looking elf, who looks also like he would like to reach out and touch Samson somehow.  As soon as Samson thinks that, he recoils slightly, and the elf flinches back a little bit as well.  “Lee?” he says tentatively, “Are you alright?”

The panic falls away at those words, and Samson gasps.  “‘Sino,” he says, as the tears rise in his eyes again. “Had a dream.  Sorry, I’m sorry, I…”  he moans again, and holds his arms out wordlessly, hoping against hope.

* * *

 

The floor chills his skin as Orsino sinks to his knees and into Samson’s embrace, wraps his arms over Samson’s shoulders and drops his cheek on top of the man’s head. A distant part of him realizes the heat array must have dispelled during the night, but the rest of him focuses on how Samson shakes, squeezing him just a hair too tight as if for reassurance that Orsino is really there, in his arms. 

“You’re awake now. I’m here,” he murmurs, running a hand over Samson’s back in slow, soothing motions. His head drops to Orsino’s shoulder and not a moment later tears start to fall against Orsino’s bare skin. Orsino holds him tighter, cards fingers through his hair. Seconds pass that turn into minutes as they stay silent but for Samson’s gasping breaths. His knees start to ache with the combination of hard stone and cold, but he doesn’t move even to readjust his position. Only when Samson can breathe without hitching does Orsino press against his jaw gently, tilting the man’s head back so he can meet his eyes in the flickering magelight. He smooths a hand against Samson’s cheek. “Will you tell me about your dream?” He watches indecision flicker across the man’s face, chased by fear and what he can only read as a deep loathing, directed inwards. 

Samson swallows, squeezes his eyes shut again but doesn’t move away from Orsino’s hand. “Corypheus,” he whispers, voice so low Orsino has to strain to hear him. “He was there and I…” he trails off with anger coloring his words. After a long minute of silence and tension building in Samson’s face it becomes apparent he’s finished speaking on the matter.

Orsino sighs. How he wishes he could do something, longs to have powers like Hawke’s friend Feynriel so he may guard Samson’s dreams – whether from images wrought by the man’s own mind or some demon tugging at his strings to torment him for its own amusement. He brushes a kiss over Samson’s cheek, lets it linger as their foreheads press together. 

There is nothing he can say to provide comfort – nothing that will not be taken as either useless platitude or outright lies. “Come,” he says, leaning back. “Even if you will not sleep tonight, lie down with me. Let me hold you?” 

Orsino stands, knees cracking, and holds a hand out to him.

* * *

 

Samson nods, taking hold of Orsino’s outstretched hand.  The man hauls him upright, and pulls him back the few paces to the bed.  “‘Sino,” Samson murmurs, “I…”

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then exhales noisily.  Orsino has turned to stand looking at him in the low, silvery light.  Samson glances up at it, blinking even as it dims.  He swallows hard.  “If you got a choice,” he says, his voice low and full of emotion, “Please – if you’ve got a choice when the Inquisitor faces him… please don’t go.”  His guts clench and he sniffs impatiently, struggling to contain the tears which threaten once again.  But he forces himself to keep looking at Orsino, to keep looking into the clear depths of his eyes.  “I know you might not be able to… y’know, choose.  But…”  He grinds his teeth together, feels his hands form fists.  “Please.”

“Oh, Lee…” Orsino murmurs sadly, squeezing his hand. “You know I can’t promise you that, even if I want to.”

Samson hitches in a breath, feels his self-control falter.   _ No _ , he wants to tell Orsino,  _ no, you can’t, I won’t let you _ .  But no matter how good the intention is, that is exactly the phrase that he will not ever let himself speak – not to Orsino, not to any mage, not ever again.  So instead, he buries all his good intentions and only nods.  Meekly, he goes to the bed, standing next to Orsino as he climbs in, then getting in under the blankets himself.  For a moment, they arrange their bodies, finally ending up with Orsino curled on his side, an arm over Samson’s chest, his head cushioned on Samson’s arm.  Gently, Samson strokes his arm underneath the blanket.   _ He won’t come for you _ , he thinks to himself, even as sleep begins to tug at his mind again, even as he feels terror twist in the pit of his stomach.   _ He’ll take ‘Sino.  That’ll be his revenge.   _ Without thinking, his arm tightens once more around Orsino, who murmurs sleepily, but does not protest.  Samson bites his lips together, feeling the burning sensation of fresh tears, and believes there will be no more sleep tonight.

But soon his overwhelmed body and mind make his eyelids heavy, the warm weight of Orsino’s sleeping body in his arms lulls him, and finally, he sleeps again.  

* * *

A hand skims over his back, rough fingers gentle as they trace battlescars and move on, up over his neck and down a shoulder – delineating every muscle, stopping to trace the permanently half-healed wound on the inside of an arm before continuing on to press against his hand, where every tendon and bone is carefully outlined. Orsino wakes slowly to the sensation, turning his palm to capture Samson’s hand in his on its next pass. 

“Y’awake, Sino?” a voice rumbles in his ear, deep enough to send a shiver down his spine. Orsino groans, yawns, and pulls the hand in his up so he can place a kiss on Samson’s knuckles. The man hums in response, pressing against Orsino’s whole body in a blanket of warmth, his breath ghosting against the nape of his neck. Orsino relaxes further, practically falling asleep in those next moments before he feels Samson’s lips on his skin, nosing his way through Orsino’s hair as each slow kiss turns from chaste to hot, open-mouth presses of lips and tongue. His heart starts to speed and Orsino tilts his head into the pillow, exposing his neck further. The invitation is hardly needed; Samson is already mouthing at a tendon, worrying the skin between his teeth, then sucking hard. 

“Lee,” Orsino murmurs, breath hitching as he reaches back, threading his fingers through Samson’s hair in an effort to pull him closer still. The hand he let go skims lightly over his neck, tracing the bob of his adam’s apple before Samson touches him further down, pinching a nipple between his fingers and rolling it. Orsino hisses, the heat of sleep finally dispelling in the face of burning lust. His hand tightens in Samson’s hair in retaliation but the man only chuckles, lips curling in a damnable smirk where Orsino can feel it against his nape. Fed up, he lets go, turning in Samson’s arms so they face each other. Magelight flares in the dark room to make up for the absence of windows, Samson’s smug grin thrown into sudden stark clarity. Orsino smiles back despite himself, framing the man’s face in his hands to draw him into a kiss. “Good morning, love,” he says against his lips. “That’s a nice way to wake up.”

Samson laughs a little.  “Probably better’n me fallin’ out of bed, right?”  There’s a tiny trace of bitterness in his voice, but the smile Samson gives him is true enough, and so Orsino dismisses it.

Hot hands skate over his skin again, and Orsino touches back just as enthusiastically, bringing his leg over Samson’s once again in a mirror of the night before. He’s half-hard already, the lack of release earlier bringing arousal to the forefront that much more quickly. Samson grips at his arse with one hand, pressing Orsino into him even harder and he moans, opens his mouth to say something, perhaps to beg for the man to touch him-

Neither of them register the sound of running footsteps as they grow closer, but they can’t possibly miss the sudden frantic banging at the door. Orsino startles, magelight flaring unbearably bright even as an unfamiliar voice calls through the wood. “Samson! General Samson! Are you in there? Ser, do you know where the First Enchanter is? It’s urgent!”

* * *

 

“Ah, shit,” Samson grumbles, scowling and craning his neck to look at the door, dark hair hanging in his face as he sits up.  “I’m here!” he yells, “Give us a second, would ya?”

“It’s  _ urgent _ ,” the voice tells them again, and Samson blows a harsh breath out of his nose, then struggles to untangle his legs from Orsino’s.  

“Better bloody be,” he grouses once more, then looks at Orsino ruefully.  “Hold that thought,” he says, then smirks and leans down to kiss Orsino’s cheek quickly.  “Alright, alright,” he growls as he walks quickly to the door. “It better be Lady Montilyet ridin’ naked ‘round the yard on a druffalo.”  He grabs the handle, pulls the locks aside, then quickly opens it, his mouth already opening to bawl out whatever wood-headed individual had the misfortune to be looking for Orsino in his room so damn early.  However, when he sees the look on the messenger’s face, he asks, “Whaddaya need?”

The messenger swallows, looks past Samson into the room behind him.  “Firs… First Enchanter Orsino?” he asks. “Are you..?  Only, Commander Cullen said… said you might be.  And… it’s… it’s one of the Reds, Lucas, he’s… there’s something wrong.  Trevelyan said he needed… First Enchanter, have you been here _ all night _ ?”

_ Lucas.  _  Samson takes a moment to process the name, then draws a deep breath as he realises who the messenger is talking about. _ The kid with the cough _ .  He scowls at the messenger without meaning to, and the boy blanches, darting his eyes once more over his shoulder.  Samson follows his gaze, twisting at the waist to see Orsino standing just behind him, bare chest exposed to the air.   _ That’s that then _ , Samson cannot help thinking,  _ the whole of Skyhold knows it now _ .  But he can’t help noting how Orsino is all business, even with no shirt on and a great swath of sheet tied around his waist – no doubt disguising the hard-on that Samson had felt against his leg.  

“It’s no matter,” Orsino tells the young man, “I will be there as soon as I am able.  Tell Maxwell to make Lucas comfortable.  Go.   _ Now _ .” 

The messenger nods, and scampers away.  Samson closes the door after him, and asks Orsino, already pulling his shirt over his head, “Can I do anything?”

“Yes,” Orsino tells him, “I need you to come with me. I know...I know this magic isn’t – will never be – something you’re comfortable with, but you’ll need to be there for him.” He pauses in the act of pulling on his overcoat, looks up at Samson with something heavy in his gaze. “And for me.” 

“Y-you?” Samson stammers, “I… I mean, I ain’t no mage, how’m I gonna..?”

“Your steadying presence comforts your men, Raleigh. They still look up to your directions. How do you think they’ll feel about me barging in, performing blood magic right in front of them? Maxwell can’t help me magically, not against your men. Neither does he have the strength to keep a warrior still on his own while I work,” Orsino takes a breath to stop the tumble of words. “Please, Lee. He needs you.”

Samson takes a deep breath.  He had known that, at some stage, he would be forced to confront what Orsino is; or rather, what his magic makes him.  Slowly, he lowers his eyes to the floor, feeling the nervous twist of his guts.

“Lee,” Orsino says gently, tucking his shirt into the waist of his trousers, “we do not have time for you to be squeamish.”

“Right,” Samson tells him, and lunges forward, walks the few paces to where he’d thrown his shirt over a chair the evening before.  He pulls it on over his head, shoves his feet into his boots, and tells Orsino, “Let’s go.”


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn’t run to the infirmary, but it’s a near thing and Orsino’s out of breath when they arrive. He can hear voices before he even opens the door, loud conversation, someone shouting: “What do you mean, you can’t help him? You’re a fucking healer, mage, do your Maker-damned job. Unless you  _ want _ him to die?” 

“Of course not!” Maxwell replies, only slightly quieter. “I told you, cleansed Templars are immune to spirit magic! I can’t heal so much as a paper cut on any of you without a potion anymore. The only thing that will help is-” he cuts off, nearly twenty sets of eyes turning to stare as Orsino and Samson hurry into the room. 

“Oi!” Samson bellows, realising the situation almost as soon as Orsino does, “Foxworth,  _ stand down _ !”

“What is  _ he _ doing here?” a voice hisses from across the room. The vitriol in it is enough to make Orsino straighten, meeting the eyes of a dark-skinned woman with red crystals still glittering through her skin. She sits beside a bed – of the woman, Roux, the one he cleansed yesterday – and he’s gratified to see she wears the mandatory neck-down clothing to keep her fellows from recontamination. 

“I’m here to help,” Orsino says before anyone can get another word in edgewise. “And while the Inquisitor is away, I’m the best chance for Serah Connors to recover from whatever is happening to him.” He turns to Maxwell. “Where is he?”

He’s led to the far end of the room, to a corner where a Templar he vaguely recognises sits propped half-upright against a box covered with a pillow, deeply unconscious and chest rising and falling jerkily. Orsino hurries over to the cot, placing a hand against the man’s brow.  _ No fever _ . “What’s wrong with him?”

“I couldn’t get much from my scan, but I think he’s got a clot in his left lung, and there’s definitely some fluid in both. Can you do anything about it?” It’s no surprise that Maxwell sounds worried. Despite everything, the man spends his days here and has come to care about his charges, no matter how they may dislike him personally. Orsino curses mentally. Before the Inquisition, his studies on blood magic had been purely academic, more of a rebellion against Meredith than any actual wish to perform them...but nothing he’s come across amounts to this type of healing. Yes, he can close wounds, but that is a simple matter of directing the body in something it already knows how to do – reform skin and knit muscle – and as a result scars are inevitable. He can draw out the wispy essence of the Blight, but Orsino knows little about the structure of the lungs beyond what he prepped for the cleansings; Dagna does the actual surgery while he keeps the patient from blood loss. Cleaning out a clot and repairing any damage it might have inflicted? Extracting fluid without drowning or exsanguinating someone in the meanwhile? He doesn’t know if he can do it. The unsurety is staggering.

Orsino swallows, takes a deep breath. “I will try,” he says, because he can tell from Maxwell’s face that if he doesn’t, it’s very likely the young man will die. It’s only when he draws the tiny dagger attached to the lining of his belt does the room around him explode in shouting, a scuffle. 

 

Maxwell cries out, and only the familiarity of the sensation that suddenly wracks Orsino’s body keeps him from falling over. He stumbles, lets the Silence wash over him and doesn’t try to claw at his connection to the Fade as it disappears.  

More shouting, Samson this time. Orsino turns slowly to face the woman from before, her skin ashy under her dark complexion as she stares at him, ignoring the death grip Samson now has on her arm. 

“W-what?” she says, terror lighting in her eyes. It takes Orsino a moment – he shakes his head to clear it, notices the red haze starting to fill the air and the sharp pain in his palm where he accidentally cut himself with the blade.

“You’ve never actually fought a blood mage before, have you?” Orsino asks, steady but not quite conversationally as the other Red Templars fall into stunned, fearful silence. Orsino doesn’t scoff, doesn’t roll his eyes as he draws his blood back to himself and under tight control. Maxwell is still panting like he’s run a mile behind him, the Silence taking its toll, weak as it was. His eyes cut to Samson’s and the man is staring at him too, eyes wide but ( _ oh thank the Maker _ ) not fearful. Orsino’s heart clenches but he keeps his mask of calm, polite disinterest. “Please remove her from the room so I can get on with saving Lucas’ life,” he says and turns back, ready to set to work.

* * *

Samson nods and hauls on Dalle’s arm.  “Rest of you, come with me,” he snarls, eyes darting between the ranks.  He sees them hesitate, sees the frowning, and fights an urge to shout.  Instead, he shoves Dalle toward the door roughly, rounding on the rest of those assembled with a glare.  “Do you want me to repeat myself?” he asks, and is only slightly reassured when those few who have stared at him with resentment in their eyes look instead to the floor.

 

He doesn’t want to know what Orsino will do.  That red mist, all that blood hanging in the air as the Silence had come down – and it had been so fast, so brutal… Samson pushes the thought aside, the mental images which accompany it, the twist in his guts, nervous, afraid.  The little knot of Templars who had clustered around Connors’ bed now follow him down the gloomy corridor, down another flight of stairs and out into the sunshine of the early morning.  He doesn’t know where he’s taking them, but they follow him docilely enough, so he keeps walking.  

 

Finally, Samson reaches the gardens, the large grassy area in the middle awash with light and already heavy with the drone of bees.  A child stands at one end, absorbed in studying something on a plant – a beetle, perhaps.  Samson looks at the kid for a moment, then turns and tells the small group, “Siddown.”

They look at each other, questioning glances, and shuffle their feet.  Samson shrugs and sits, stretches his legs out in the grass, still cool with the remnants of dew.  Slowly, the rest of the group follow his lead, until all of them are seated.  Samson sniffs, lets the silence grow, and finally asks them, “What the fuck is going on?”

 

Muttering and a few scowls, then Dalle sits up a little straighter.  “Why don’t you tell us, _General_?”  Her nostrils flare a little, and she works her mouth before spitting hard into the grass.  “I did what I did with good cause.  Your lover, that Orsino, he’s a maleficar.  I still cannot believe it.  In the old days, he would…”

Samson sneers.  “Yeah.  I know what woulda happened.  I know what would have happened if Orsino was even  _ accused _ of being a maleficar.  He would have been sent to Aeonar – maybe even killed.  No question.  And the world would have lost all that skill, all that knowledge.  I’m not gonna fight you on what would’ve happened back then.  But you gotta realise – we ain’t livin’ in the old days no more.”  He pauses, looks around the group. “I know it’s fuckin’ scary.  But fact of it is, blood magic’s saved our lives.”

“For what?” a large man in the back of the group asks, “Why?  Why bother?  We lost.  I can’t do shit with these,” he holds up both arms, shows the stumps where his hands used to be. “How the fuck am I gonna live?  How the fuck am I gonna  _ work _ ?  Templar’s all I ever been, General.  I been in the Order since I was fourteen.  I don’t know anything else.”

 

Samson nods to show he has heard, then shakes his head – he has no answers.  Dalle snorts derisively and shakes her head in disgust.  Samson watches her, but she will not meet his gaze.  Finally, she sighs.  “We will do what we’ve always done – survive.”  Dalle glances back at the rest of the group, “I know that merc, the qunari, he has been talking to a few of us.  But that work will not be any good for those who can’t travel, can no longer grip a sword or fire an arrow.  We need to find a way to make our way in the world without anyone else’s help.”  Samson watches her jaw work, and then she turns suddenly to glare at him.  “And we know we cannot trust  _ you _ anymore.  You threw over all of us, gave us up as soon as you could.  So that you could have  _ him _ .”

 

There is an eruption of sound at that remark – some indignant, some concurring.  Samson sneers, then swallows and averts his eyes.  Ruefully he thinks of Cullen, how much it had hurt when he’d left the Order, left Kirkwall to join the Inquisition.  After a few minutes, the noise dies down, and Samson can feel the weight of the others gazes upon him.  Slowly, he smiles and looks up, looking at each of the faces in turn.

 

They are almost equally divided between resentment and concern.  “Right,” Samson says finally, his voice soft, careful.  “I’m not your General anymore.  I can’t be, and I don’t  _ wanna _ be.  Not because I don’t think you’re worth leading – I do.  But… I was wrong.  Not in everything, mind, but…”  he shrugs, “my methods were shit.  But I’ll never back down on the fact that you lot – you, Dalle, and you, Simpson, and all of those we left behind, all of you – you were all worth saving.  You served the Order with your lives, you gave everything to it.”  He sighs out a harsh breath and shakes his head.  “I never did what I did because I hated mages.  I don’t.”  He laughs ironically. “Obviously.  Some of the finest people I’ve known have been mages.  No – I hate  _ the Chantry _ , hate the leash they had us on, the fact that if you stepped out of line, or even at a whim, they would cut you off the blue, leave you to die in a gutter – the fact that they feel it’s right to cage a man because of what he can’t help bein’, instead of treatin’ him right and teaching him to control his magic doesn’t help their cause either.”  Samson shakes his head slowly. “If you don’t trust me anymore, then I guess I understand it.  But I’ll do everything I can to help you, and I’ll never,  _ ever _ , abandon you.  Just like you lot didn’t abandon Lucas.  He’s one of us.”

 

There seems to be nothing more to say.   So they sit in the grass as Skyhold comes to life.  The sun beats down upon them, gaining in heat as they sit in silence, the bees murmuring their secret songs, the world turning around them.  

* * *

Orsino helps Maxwell to a chair by the bed, casting a wary eye to the remaining patients. Several still stare at him, but those awake are in no shape to leave their beds, let alone get up to attack them. No more thought can be spared on the matter; time runs short. He turns back to Lucas – there’s a bowl on the bedside table that he snatches up, leaning over the young man. He’s too pale, the wracking hitch of his breath scraping at Orsino’s nerves as he fumbles the Templar’s tunic open. With a thought, the knife in his hand is free of his blood. It slices through skin easily, leaving the smallest of cuts on Lucas’ chest, opposite the heart. Blood wells immediately, and Orsino is there with his to meet it, pushing in. The next moment he loses all awareness of his surroundings, his eyes falling closed as Orsino tracks his own blood through Lucas’ veins, down, finally to the lungs, and-

He finds the clot easily enough. It is easy, too, to break it into smaller pieces, to shred it so he may pull it out through veins and that tiny slit in the skin. And suddenly blood is rushing into lungs, filling small spaces where there should only be air. Orsino stays calm, reaches to gently, slowly seal the breach until the only sign of it is a scar, smooth and still functional. 

A breath. Orsino turns his attention on the mix of blood and plasma that still builds as Lucas slowly drowns in it. The task takes phenomenal focus; Orsino’s own body frozen as if by Winter’s Grasp while his mind and magic sink into the fluid, reaching until he can feel every particle, every protesting contraction of organ walls, every gurgling breath. 

Orsino has no idea how long he spends, standing there over Lucas with the whole room looking on as red-pink plasma oozes through the man’s skin, floating over to the bowl but sometimes missing completely as he turns his attention back to the internal battle. White sheets slowly stain yellow and red, ruined in near silence. Orsino’s eyes are still closed, his own bloody palm pressed directly over Lucas’ chest now. He can only let Lucas’s body guide him, following the feeling of  _ wrongwrongthisisntsupposedtobehere _ over and over until, finally, he pulls at the last of it. 

“Maxwell,” Orsino croaks, coughs, opening his eyes. “Can you access your magic yet?” 

Trevelyan is by his side the next moment, looking so refreshed that Orsino wonders if the man left to drink a lyrium potion. He didn’t notice whether Maxwell even moved at all, not with every ounce of his concentration fixed on his task.

“Y-yes, Orsino, but...are you all right? The Silence-”

Orsino straightens, waves the man off despite his wobbly knees. “I’m perfectly fine. Please, examine Connors again to make sure I haven’t missed anything. No one wants a repeat of this episode, I’m sure.” 

Maxwell shoots him a skeptical look Orsino is far more accustomed to seeing on Anders’ face, but reluctantly leans past him to place one mana-wreathed hand over the Templar’s chest. A minute crawls by before the healer pulls away with a relieved sigh. “Everything looks good. As far as I can tell, other than some scarring he’s healthy again. He’ll recover just fine.” 

Murmurs start up in the room, some even edging on reluctant approval from what Orsino can catch. Tiredly, he reaches out to Lucas once again, sealing the cut he made on the man’s chest thoroughly enough that the scar is barely discernable among the marks of his surgery. 

_ It’s over _ , he thinks, more weary than proud of his accomplishment, but a small curl of happiness blooms in him nonetheless.  _ One less person I will have to watch die _ . 

Orsino sighs, moves to stand, but when he turns to Maxwell the corners of his vision are filled with shadows and he feels strangely unsteady on his feet. “Max-” he starts, reaching out for the mage’s sleeve, but it’s too late for that. Consciousness flees and Orsino drops into a dead faint. 

 

* * *

The sun had proved too warm for them eventually, and the little knot of ex-Red Templars had gradually dispersed – some to find breakfast, some to attend to jobs which they’d been given around Skyhold.  Samson had found the guard who had been assigned to him, a mere pup at least half his age, standing in the corridor between the Herald’s Rest and the kitchens, smiling in a mooning fashion at a willowy young woman.  As Samson approaches, trying to hide his grin, the young man reaches out, takes her hand; she giggles, and blushes, but does not pull out of his grip.  Samson cannot help it – he laughs and asks, “Got better things to do, huh?”

 

The lad snaps to attention, and the young woman takes two steps backwards, dropping his hand.  “Aw,” Samson smirks, “don’t worry about me.  I was just headin’ up to the infirmary again.  You stay.  Do… whatever.”  The smirk widens, and the young man looks at him sternly.

“I’ve been told to stay with you,” he says, and Samson shrugs.  

“Alright then,” he nods to the girl, who frowns at him. “M’lady.  He’ll be safe with me, don’t you worry.”

 

He continues down the corridor, the guard trailing sullenly after him.  Samson cannot resist a look around at the boy, who looks at him briefly and then away when Samson snickers.  “Poor  _ you _ ,” Samson says as their footfalls echo around the stony space. “Flirtin’ on the job.  That the first time she held your hand?”

“No,” the guard tells him, sounding cross, then pauses, and Samson looks around again, over his shoulder.  The boy is blushing, and as Samson watches, he cuts his eyes to him and mutters, “The second.”

 

Samson smiles at him and shrugs.  “Plenty of time,” he says, trying to assure the boy without being condescending.   _ Still _ , he considers,  _ Some old git askin’ questions about my love life at that age, I’d think he was bein’ a wanker too _ .  He sighs, climbing the stairs up to the infirmary – then stops as he takes in the silence of the place.  Usually, one can hear voices from within – silence means either that everyone is asleep and he’s missed Orsino, or that the operation is still ongoing.  Samson’s brow furrows, trying to figure out what Orsino would want him to do.   _ We do not have time for you to be squeamish _ , Orsino’s voice echoes in his head, and Samson nods, resolved.  “Stay here,” he murmurs to the guard, who nods.  Softly, Samson knocks, then pushes open the door.  “Hello?” he asks, “Can I come in?”

 

“Samson?”  It’s Max, the earnest healer Orsino had brought with him from Redthorne.  Soft footfalls on the other side of the door, and the door swings open, revealing the man himself.  He still looks a little peaky, and once again, Samson’s brow furrows in concern.  “You alri..?” he begins, but Max shakes his head.

 

“He’s exhausted,” he tells Samson quietly, “that’s all this is.”

Samson’s concern turns into confusion – how on earth could Lucas be exhausted?  Was he pushing himself too hard, trying to get back up to fitness for the Chargers?  And how could a blood clot or whatever-the-fuck be caused by exhaustion?  Max pulls the door wider, beckoning Samson inside and over to a figure hunched in a bed under the window, deeply asleep.  For a moment, Samson doesn’t register.  And then he sees – it is Orsino.

 

He grunts and bites his lip, then sniffs.   _ Daft git _ , he thinks,  _ I told you to take it easy! _  As soon as the thought has formed, he regrets it – everything Orsino is doing, has done, has been for his men.  So instead, Samson takes a deep breath and asks Max softly, “Just exhaustion?  He’s not… sick or nothing?  It wasn’t the Silence?”

Max shakes his head.  “No,” he murmurs, “though that can’t have helped.  The procedures he’s been doing with the Inquisitor have been too much of a strain.  And I don’t think he’s been eating enough.  He’s just tired.  He needs to rest.”  Max smiles, looking at Samson with a raised eyebrow.  “Connors will recover though, thanks to him.”

 

“Aw, bloody Void, ‘Sino,” Samson mutters, and looks over at the bed where Connors lies, breathing even and deep.  He finds Orsino’s hand, stands staring at the careworn features until he hears a scrape and soft clatter next to him.  

“Here,” Max tells him, “If you want to stay, you’re more than welcome.  He may sleep the clock around though.”

“Fine,” Samson tells him, and takes a moment to get seated.  If it means waiting, then he will wait.

* * *

Orsino knows he dreams, though his visions of the Fade have been unclear these last few months. Blood magic takes its toll on more than the body – drawing power from his own life force also muddies his connection to the Fade in dreams, even if he can draw on mana and spellcast as efficiently as ever in the waking world. 

He’s in a city; Fereldan, by the look of the stonework, but he can’t know for sure when he’s not had the opportunity to travel much beyond the period he spent running away from Templars in the Free Marches. 

Orsino sits on a low stone wall, watching as a boy with rough hands and wild brown hair swings again and again at a training dummy. The Chantry courtyard is filled with other boys and a few girls doing the same thing, but the boy keeps catching his eye, his resemblance to Lucas Connors too close to be incidental. The boy swings, a supervising Templar barks out a correction of his grip on the wooden sword, he tries again and is then censured for his footwork. On it goes, blurring timelessly as dreams do until the scene changes almost without Orsino’s notice. 

Lucas, now the age Orsino knows him, lies on a bedroll in a tiny tent, a crimson Sword of Mercy emblazoned on the side. The young man’s red eyes gaze blankly at the cloth ceiling, his fingers running up and down the newly-sprouted spikes of lyrium that decorate his neck and chest like a bouquet of blood lotus. 

Later, Orsino will wonder why he witnessed these moments in particular, what significance these two “everyday” instances hold for Lucas himself. For now, the particular fog of dreams leaves Orsino content to sit beside the man in the peace of the night as Lucas lies awake and stares into the Void.

He wakes slowly, his mind sluggish with lingering exhaustion and his body screaming with thirst. Orsino reaches out to his bedside table where he keeps a goblet at night, only to jolt when his hand hits nothing but air. “Wha-” his voice cracks and he jolts upright as a coughing fit wracks his body. There are voices, someone speaking to him, but it’s only when a cup is pressed to his hands that he manages to concentrate on their words.

“-shit, ‘Sino. Don’t go dying on me. C’mon, drink this, it’ll help.”

_ Samson _ . He can trust that voice, trust anything that comes from his hands. Orsino gives in and drinks the cool, sweet water, only choking slightly once when he coughs again before his body pulls back to equilibrium. The cup is empty when he finally manages to calm his breath and open his eyes. Samson is leaning over him, hair in disarray and the bags under his eyes deeper than usual. 

“Lee?” he coughs again, clearing his throat with a wince. “What happened?” Memories rush back in, and Orsino’s head snaps up. He’s in the infirmary, that’s clear, and… “Is Lucas-?” 

He peers around them, gaze finally alighting on the corner where his patient still lies propped against a pillow. His inattention causes him to drop the cup, and Samson catches it, placing it on the bedside table with an irritable growl.  

“Yeah, yeah,” Samson puts the cup down a little harder than he means to, and sighs a long breath.  He shakes his head.  “Lucas is fine.  Ain’tcha?”

He calls the word across the room to the bed opposite Orsino’s, waving at Lucas, who grins and waves back sleepily.  Samson looks at Orsino, sees the look of astonishment on his face, and rubs a hand along his cheek.  Almost twelve hours, and his arse is numb from sitting so long.  He shifts, still watching as Orsino stares at Lucas, then asks him, “You want another drink?”

 

Orsino shakes his head and looks at Samson. “What happened?  Where’s Maxwell?”

“Ol’ Maxie’s gone to bed,” Samson tells him, “because it’s bedtime.  Nothin’ to do here – everyone’s asleep, or gettin’ there.  Everyone’s well.”  He can’t help but grin, a little sheepishly, “I been helping him.”

He laughs quietly when Orsino frowns.  “Well, what did you think?  I wasn’t just gonna sit here starin’ at your face for bloody ages.  You drool when you’re asleep, old man.  And you snore.”  He chuckles again, reaches for Orsino’s hand.  As he slides his fingers around the warm pliancy of Orsino’s skin, his smile softens.  “Nah.  I just… even if it was just rolling bandages and stuff, it was better than sittin’ around worrying about you.”  He reaches out, brushes a stray lock of hair off Orsino’s forehead, and looks at him fondly.  “Lie down, huh?  Go back to sleep.  I’ll stay until you do.”

* * *

He wakes, some time later, to moonlight streaming through the infirmary windows and Samson sitting next to the cot, head pillowed in his arms and snoring quietly. Orsino stares at him for long moments, slightly less groggy now than the first time he woke.  _ Stupid man _ , he thinks fondly. He should sit up, wake Samson and send him off to sleep in a proper bed so the man won’t end up nursing a crick in his back all of tomorrow. But from here he can see part of Samson’s face – the unusual smoothness to his brow and how his eyelid flutters slightly under the influence of a dream that has yet to send him screaming. 

“It is always water – dock and oceans of endless blue, a lake where his sister teaches him to swim, rain in the forest,” a voice whispers beside him. Orsino only barely keeps himself from flinching, turning to the spirit now perched on the other side of his cot. He didn’t notice the bed dip under the boy’s weight, but there he sits, real and solid. His friendship with Justice made adjusting to Cole easy, his presence comforting when everything about this fortress on the edge of Fereldan was cold and foreign. Orsino can never predict when he’ll show up, but he tries to enjoy the company even when it startles him – the boy’s idiosyncrasies are part of his charm by this point.

“Is...is it a good dream?” he asks, not wanting to pry, but if Samson is finally sleeping without nightmares he’s not sure if he can bring himself to wake the man. 

Cole turns to look at him, eyes silver despite his hat blocking the moonlight from shining directly on them. “Fish at his feet in clear water. A man who made little paper birds sits beside him. Breaking bread, no brand on his face but he smiles and everything is less grey.” 

Orsino lets out a breath and relaxes back into his pillow. He recognises Maddox from the bread alone – it’s good to hear, that Samson still recalls his late friend with some happiness. 

“Years of waiting, trying to push down hope. Thorns are protection but there are some people who can’t be kept out. They’re inside and they want you to leave with them,” Cole murmurs, his gaze fixed on Orsino. “The gates are open, no swords bar the way. This is blood and steel and freedom. You can go whenever you want. Why haven’t you said yes?” 

Orsino closes his eyes, Samson’s muttered confession from earlier – yesterday? – echoing in his mind. He tries to dredge up the words, feeling tongue-tied in the face of the boy’s confusion. “It’s not that simple, Cole. I… I have responsibilities here. And Raleigh has his men to think about, too.” 

“Ruin and red, feeding poison when they needed a Blade of Mercy. I’ve done enough to them. He never dreams of forgiveness except when you tell him another made it through. You make the nightmares better.”

 

He shouldn’t be listening to this, he knows. “You see, that’s why I have to stay and keep helping. Without me, many of the Red Templars will die. Neither of us wants that to happen.”

“What about when they’re all healed again? Or when Merrill defeats Corypheus with what she learned in the Well?” Cole cocks his head to the side, as if listening to something only he can hear. “Loam and warm mud underfoot, a cabin in the forest, books and letters to old friends, shoes lined up by the door and the scent of leather. Always, it rains. You want to go.”

Orsino swallows, doesn’t have to look down to see his hands clenched in the sheets. He thinks about Redthorne, now thriving under Anders’ leadership with Inquisition backing and burgeoning trade agreements all over Thedas. He watched his brethren grow happier and more confident every day, removed from the threat of Templars and the Chantry’s influence. He can see it here, too, in the mages like Connor Guerrin who hated themselves for so long and are slowly starting to blossom into competent, responsible people with the example of so many free mages to draw from. It’s something Orsino’s longed to be a part of for decades but didn’t ever think he’d live to bring about. Can he truly give up such a thing, now that he has it? 

Silence lingers in the air, Cole waiting patiently for a response. Orsino must be honest with himself, even if there wasn’t a spirit hanging on his every thought at the moment. He looks back to Samson, the man still snoring faintly into the crook of his arm. Orsino bites at the inside of his cheek, eyes tracing the contours of Samson’s face from the moonlit highlight of his cheekbone to the crescent of darkness where his nose meets brow. 

A sigh, a small smile. “Yes...I want to go with him.”

“You should tell him, then.”

Orsino closes his eyes once more; knows without looking that Cole is gone.

* * *

Samson squeezes his eyes closed harder, the golden sunlight warm on his face, shining red under his eyelids.  He shifts, for a moment wondering where he is, and then the bolt of pain which shoots down his neck and back reminds him – like an idiot, like a Maker-damned love-struck  _ idiot _ , he had fallen asleep next to Orsino’s bed.  He groans softly, squeezes his eyes closed a little harder, then slits them open.  

 

It is still early, and though there is a faint noise of movement around him, there are very few voices yet.  Samson blinks, shifting in the hard chair gingerly as he straightens his back and looks around.  Orsino is asleep still, as is Connors, and Samson smiles.  Maxwell catches the smile and gives him a small wave – Samson grins at him and nods a greeting.  He rises slowly, stretching and yawning, then shuffles over to speak with the man.

 

“Sleep well?” he murmurs, and Maxwell chuckles.

“Better than you, probably,” he returns, and flips a sheet of parchment over the back of the scripting board he carries.  “How’s your back?”

“Horrible,” Samson returns jovially, and shakes his head. “Actually, I slept like a log.  Or a baby.  Or a baby log.”

Maxwell laughs a little, a short, gentle noise, then sighs.  “Get out of here, you.  If you go now, I’ll tell him that you waited until he was asleep and then slept in your own bed.  You know you’d be in for a telling off if he knew you’d slept here all night.”

“Always knew you were a good sort, Maxie,” Samson grins. “I’ll be back after breakfast, alright?  Or… I mean, I don’t wanna be a nuisance.”

“No, that’s fine, so long as Bull knows where you are,” Maxwell tells him, though Samson can tell his mind is back on whatever is on the parchment in front of him.  So he smiles and squeezes Maxwell’s shoulder, before turning and taking one final glance at Orsino and then striding down the aisle between the beds and letting himself out.

 

He is sitting in the early morning sun, up on the battlements, chewing the last of his bread with his eyes closed when he feels a strange presence beside him.  “Oi,” he says softly, “didn’t anyone ever tell you it’s rude to sneak up on people when they’re tryin’ to hide from their guard?”

“You’re worried – watchful, waiting, weighted down,” Cole says softly from just above him, and Samson opens his eyes to see Cole sitting cross-legged atop a crenelation.  “This new hope comes with fear in its belly, and you want it and worry over the wanting.”

“Yeah,” Samson sighs.  Cole still puts him on edge, but usually only because he can seem to find words for whatever is bothering Samson the most.  Honestly, every time he sees the kid he feels guilty.  He knows the stories about how Cole – the real Cole – died, and it gives him the chills.  He peers up at Cole again, and Cole gazes down at him, his face serene.

 

“That’s the fear,” he murmurs, “what you feel about me, you’re fearful will happen to him.  You don’t want to keep him; he’s too perfect, too proud, too powerful not to be free.   _ ‘Sino, I love you _ .  You spoke the words, not knowing if they were cage or key.  I know others who knew the same fear.  Love was their key; it freed them.”  Cole glances up, toward the horizon as Samson watches him.  “He’ll come to you, I think.  You need to talk about what happens after.”

 

“Yeah,” Samson says again, and smiles slightly, feeling a sort of confused hope at the words.  “Hey, Cole?  Thanks.  You really helped.”

“Really?” And the boy smiles at him, biting his lip.  “I did?”

“Uh huh,” Samson tells him, and dusts the breadcrumbs off his lap.  “I’m gonna go back up to the infirmary, alright?  You… wanna come?”

Cole blinks his bright grey eyes at him, and shakes his head.  “No,” he says, “I have to feed the mice.”

 

Samson laughs softly and nods.  “Alright then,” he says, heaving himself up, “I’ll see you later.”  And with that, he walks away, feeling curiously buoyant, like a feather on a storm-tossed sea.

* * *

Maxwell finds Orsino sitting up in bed, pulling woolen socks back over his feet and feeling decidedly unclean.  _ I need to visit the baths as soon as possible _ , he grumbles internally, finally reaching for his boots as the healer approaches. 

“Ah, good to see you awake at last. How are you feeling?” the man asks, scripting board tucked under his arm as he looks Orsino up and down. 

“Better, actually. I didn’t realize how much I needed to sleep,” he admits. “How is everyone?” It’s a perfunctory question – he can see Lucas sitting up across the way, chatting quietly with another Red whose hands Orsino cannot see from this angle – but he remembers the way he helped Dagna painstakingly stitch what was left together. 

“Lucas is doing much better. If he continues to improve he’ll be let out on light duties again in a week or so.”

“That’s good to hear,” Orsino hums, casting a glance at the empty chair beside his cot. “And Samson?” 

He narrows his eyes when Trevelyan looks pointedly out the window. “Oh, he left after you fell asleep – went to his own quarters, I suppose.”

“...You’re worse at telling lies than Raleigh. Do yourself a favor and never bet any money on card games, will you?”

Maxwell snorts as he looks back to Orsino and shrugs, apparently unconcerned at being caught out. “At least I can tell him I tried, if he asks. Anyway.” He pulls a piece of parchment out of his pocket to hand to the elf. Orsino takes it warily.

“What’s this?”

“Official healer’s orders. You’re to be excused from your cleansing duties for three weeks.” 

He can’t help but gape, too incredulous to do anything else. “What- three  _ weeks _ ? Maxwell, I cannot possibly- There is no way to justify leaving the Reds to fend off corruption for three weeks. How many of them will die in that span, with neither I nor Merrill to-”

“It will be much worse if  _ you _ die, First Enchanter,” the man cuts in, face stony. “You aren’t just exhausted; you’re dehydrated, a stone underweight. It was lucky that you passed out here where you could be helped. What if it happens again? What if it happens while you walk down the stairs? On the battlements?”

Orsino scowls. “I am quite capable of taking care of myself, I assure you. I will endeavor to eat and drink more often, but three weeks is unacceptable.” He makes to hand the parchment back and is surprised when Maxwell snatches it out of his hand.

“Three weeks is  _ pushing it _ , with how much blood you’ve lost over the past two months! If I had my way you would be on bedrest and scheduled meals for a month, but you’re too bloody stubborn for that, aren’t you?” The healer is red in the face, whether from anger or embarrassment at all the eyes suddenly focused on them, Orsino doesn’t know. “If you won’t listen to me, I’ll talk to someone you will. In the meantime, the Inquisitor is projected to return in a week. She can take over the cleansings until such a time as you’re fit for duty.” Maxwell spins on his heel then, stomping out the door with the parchment crumpled in his fist. Orsino can only stare after him, stunned silent until Lucas coughs. He turns and sees the man and his companion both staring. 

“Whoa, you made him really mad,” the Templar sitting beside Lucas says, smiling in a manner that shows a few of his pointed teeth. “Never seen him like that before, even when Foxworth was hauling him around by the collar.” He looks at Orsino, not quite meeting his eyes but still managing to convey amusement. “You better watch your back – healers can be pretty damn scary, with or without the magic.”

Orsino sighs, resisting the urge to cover his face with both hands. “I’ll be sure to heed your advice, thank you.” He stands, gauging his steadiness to walk as he drapes his overcoat in the crook of his arm. He’s better-rested, true, but still tired and irritated by this new curve in the road. Leaving the infirmary under the force of intense scrutiny, all Orsino can think is,  _ Maker, I need a damn bath right  _ **_now_ ** _. _


	13. Chapter 13

He gets halfway down the aisle between the beds before he realises that the one which Orsino had occupied is now empty.  Samson makes a face, looks for Maxwell and cannot find him.  He hears a laugh, and then Lucas rasps, “You looking for your… uh, Orsino?”

“Yeah,” Samson says, still frowning in exasperation.  He pushes his hair off his forehead and shakes his head.  “Don’t tell me that bloody Maxwell’s gone and let him go already.”

Lucas beckons him over, his expression suddenly furtive.  Samson arches an eyebrow in confusion and walks over to him.  “The healer tried to tell him to take it easy.  Wanted to put him on bedrest for three weeks, told him he wasn’t to do any more cleansings ‘til he’s better.  Said he’s exhausted, too thin, lost too much blood.”  Lucas thins his lips and raises both eyebrows, “Not really surprising, I guess.  But…”

“Lemme guess.  He didn’t take it very well,” Samson sighs.  

Lucas shakes his head.  “That’s about the size of it,” he murmurs. “He stomped out of here like he was really angry about it.  Dunno where he was going.”

“Thanks, Connors,” Samson says, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.  He feels his mind begin to pull away from the present situation, to puzzle out where Orsino might have gone, why on earth he wouldn’t have seen the sense in Maxwell’s statement.  Then he blinks, recalling himself to who it is sitting in the bed in front of him.  “Hey… how’re you feeling?”

“Oh, yeah,” Lucas tells him, and grins. “Max reckons another week or so, then they’ll have me sweeping up the stables or whatever.  I don’t mind.  The horsemaster’s actually pretty nice.  Reckons I’ve got a way with horses.  Reckons he might teach me.”  The lad swallows, his smile becoming crooked. “Can’t go with the others, can’t fight no more.  My dad kept horses, up in South Reach.  Horses sounds like a good bet.”

“Good,” Samson tells him, nodding firmly.  There is quiet for a moment, then he sniffs.  “You’re a good kid.”

Lucas snorts a laugh, looks away, shaking his head.  “Get out of here,” he chuckles, then coughs weakly.  Samson grins, and shrugs, then squeezes Lucas’ arm gently before he turns away.

He checks in with Bull again before he does anything else.  “Ain’t seen him in here,” Bull tells him, looking concerned.  “You want me to give him a message if I do?”

“Tell him to go to bed,” Samson says, and though Bull laughs, Samson no longer feels like laughing at all.  This is his fault.  If he’d been firmer with Orsino, had made it clear to him what he saw when he looked at him, Maker, if he hadn’t kept pushing him the other night, the man might have gotten more rest.  He should have been looking after Orsino.  Samson slams the door a little hard, and Solas looks up sharply.  

“He is not here,” he says quietly, and turns once more back to the delicate leaves he is painting at the bottom of a fresco.  

Samson growls and turns on his heel, walking back out of the bottom-most floor of the library.  If Orsino is not in the tavern, and he’s not in the Hall, and he’s not in the mage tower or the library, then he must be in his room.   _ Bloody good thing too _ , he thinks, walking quickly across the Hall again and through a door on the other side.  The stairs lead down, into a curved corridor.  More stairs, another hallway, then a right turn through another open door.  Eventually, the winding passage leads into a narrow passageway – and there is Orsino’s door.  Samson stands stock still outside it for a moment, takes a deep breath, and knocks quietly.

* * *

Blue and orange light washes from the door as soon as the knock sounds, startling Orsino from his pointed concentration on untangling his damp hair – he tries to focus on the snarls, how it’s getting long enough it either needs to be cut or he’ll have to start pulling it back. It was sufficient distraction from his anger, at least for the moment. Orsino sighs, setting the small bone comb aside. “Come in,” he calls, sure who it is – few people in this castle knock without announcing themselves. As he predicted, the door swings open the next moment and Samson stands outlined in the frame. Despite his general mood, he smiles. “Raleigh, good to see you when we’re both awake.” 

Samson takes a quick step inside and closes the door quietly behind himself.  His hand rests on the door jamb, and it seems to Orsino as if he is deliberately avoiding his gaze.  Then, low and cautious, Samson asks, “Where’d you get to?”

“The baths,” Orsino replies, grimacing. “An entire day abed left me feeling...disgusting. Now Connors is better, there wasn’t any purpose to staying.”

Samson’s expression shifts, his eyes narrowing briefly.  Then his brow smooths, and although he still does not look at Orsino, he sighs.  “Better get used to that feeling,” he murmurs, “‘cause from what I hear, you’re going to be spending more time in bed.”  He takes his hand off the door jamb and looks across the room at Orsino.  “Three weeks, I hear.  Should be longer, but what do I know?”

Orsino stiffens, cold iron trickling down his spine as he looks up at the warrior. “Don’t tell me Maxwell already found you? It’s ridiculous, of course. We both know there’s no way the Inquisition can afford me to shirk my duties for so long.” 

“ _ Shirk? _ ” Samson asks, incredulous.  He seems at a loss for words for a moment, then his frown deepens – the scowl on his face is ugly.  “You ain’t shirkin’ nothing – you couldn’t shirk your duties if you tried.”  He takes a deep breath, obviously trying to calm himself.  “‘Sino, it wasn’t Max who told me.  It was Lucas.  He’d heard everything that Max told you, and he… he said he wasn’t surprised.  Nobody is.  Nobody who knows anything about this will consider you being given bedrest as something you wanted to happen.  So why don’t you just..?”

Heat creeps across his face, angry this time instead of embarrassed. Orsino tries to take a deep breath, to steady himself, but finds it doesn’t work as well as it ought. He thought Samson, out of everyone, would understand. “Bedrest,” Orsino hisses, hand clenching over the back of the chair he sits on. “So I am to be confined to bed, contained and  _ useless _ while more of your men die? How many fell to corruption this week, Raleigh? How many more will we lose if I am to do as you say?”

Samson bristles, and Orsino watches as his jaw works.  “How much fuckin’ use will you be if you collapse during a cleansing?  Huh?”  That ugly sneer is back, and the force of his gaze is compelling, though Orsino finds it makes him more sure that he must make the man understand.  “Don’t you _ dare _ throw numbers in my face.  You think I don’t know?  I  _ know _ time’s not on our side. I know that there’s six men in the Wilds camps who’ll die before they can be brought to Skyhold – that there’s at least eighteen already here who probably won’t survive the wait, let alone the cleansing itself.  You think I haven’t thought of that?”  He looks away from Orsino for a moment, then back again, his eyes blazing. “You think I haven’t wondered what they’d say if they knew I wasn’t tryin’ to get you to work yourself into an early grave?  But I’m here, weighing twenty four lives against the lives you’ll save in three weeks – against the lives you’ve already saved.  So don’t you dare throw numbers at me.”

Orsino closes his eyes for a moment, fighting the pain of a burgeoning headache as his stomach roils unpleasantly. “I’m not- I’m not trying to guilt you with numbers, or shove their deaths in your face. But I can’t simply stand back when I  _ know  _ I can do something about their suffering. If there’s even a chance I can prevent one person’s death… That’s not in my nature.” He looks down. The action feels uncomfortable, too subservient, but he can’t bring himself to continue looking at Samson’s sneer, to witness that anger directed at him. “Despite how this situation looks, I am capable of taking care of myself – I simply need to pay more attention to my body’s needs. And bedrest…” he trails off, suddenly incapable of dredging up the words needed to express how the healer’s order set him on edge, not only because of the lives he will be letting slip through his fingers, but… 

_ Captive, useless, caged _ , drifts across his thoughts. He looks up. “I  _ can’t _ , Raleigh. Even if that means I must fight you on this.” 

Samson looks angrily at him for a moment, his mouth open belligerently, his fists clenched at his sides.  And then, the anger fades, paling, withering before Orsino’s eyes, until Samson finally bows his head and rubs a hand under his nose.  The quiet is grim, until finally, Samson says, “You don’t need to fight me.  I just… I don’t get it.  I mean, I do, but…”  He looks up, wrinkling his nose as if he has smelled something unpleasant, and Orsino realises with some shock that he is trying not to cry.  “Don’t throw yourself away, ‘Sino.  Please.  I think… I get it, you want to work, you want to be useful, you want to… I dunno, keep your position here… no, that came out wrong, but you want to… I don’t know, keep what you have.  And if you’re seen to give that up, even a little bit…”  Samson sighs, and stares back down at the floor.  The silence stretches around them again until slowly, softly, Samson asks, “Does what I want matter?”  Again, that awful quiet, then Samson shakes his head.  “That was unfair.  I’m sorry.  I just… I want to just… take it all away from you, all these weights draggin’ you down.”  He shakes his head again and repeats, “I’m sorry.”

Orsino jolts out of his chair then, closing the distance between them in a few strides. “Don’t apologize,” he murmurs, defensive anger fleeing in the face of Samson’s near-beseeching tone. He doesn’t reach out, not yet – not sure if he’s allowed, after such an upset. “Don’t apologize, Lee. Maker, of course what you want matters. I  _ love you _ , I care about what you think, and I...appreciate that you want to protect me, even from myself. But we’re vastly different people and… this is new. I can’t… I can’t promise that we’ll always understand each other, not about subjects like this. Some of the things in my head – they move too fast, are difficult to explain. And I…” he steps in closer, thankful when Samson doesn’t move away. “If… I want you to be happy, too. A burden shared is a burden halved, trite as that is.”

Samson blows out a short, relieved breath.  “I don’t care about bein’ happy – not really.  I can’t help bein’ happy, if you are.”  He grimaces and raises an eyebrow at Orsino, hands itching to reach out, to pull the man closer to him. “Bit hard to be happy if you’ve carked it with exhaustion though.”

* * *

 

Orsino snorts and rolls his eyes, and something in Samson worries that perhaps he’s making light of this, perhaps it is too soon.  But he smiles nonetheless, and reaches out, stroking a short line down Orsino’s arm, then clasping his hands in front of himself.  “So,” he says quickly, “wanna make a compromise?  You take a week and a half off – ten and a half days, if you wanna be an asshole about it – and we see how it goes from there?”  He grins, raising his eyebrows. “And when I say ‘off’ I really mean  _ off _ – you come with me, we go… somewhere… uh, I’m makin’ this up, if you can’t tell… and go for walks in the woods or by the lake or whatever, we take supplies, don’t talk to nobody ‘cept each other.  Get good and sick of each other.”  He smirks, opening his hands wide, palms up.  “That’s a pretty good offer, old man.  You like it, we stay longer.  You hate it, we come back.”

He watches Orsino watch him, the man’s eyes darting over his face as if searching for something. For a long moment, he thinks Orsino won’t agree – his earlier vehemence still ringing in Samson’s ears. But then the man’s lips curl upwards slightly, smile wan but still present as he takes that last step forward, Orsino’s arms threading through and around his until Samson has to part his hands in order to return the embrace. “All right,” Orsino murmurs against his neck. “Ten days. I...can do that. Arrangements will have to be made with Bull and the advisors, but-” he stops, and Samson can feel the way Orsino’s hand clenches against his back, pulling his shirt fabric taut. “When Merrill returns, I will need to speak to her about this. We may have to set up a schedule and...” He sighs. “While I have no doubt I can obtain permissions for you to leave Skyhold, we can’t be seen doing so – not yet and not for as long as you wish to leave. I… I doubt I will get sick of you any time soon, Lee.”

Samson nods, a strange feeling twisting in his guts.  The restrictions on his movement still rankles, and as much as he’s told himself he deserves it, that he should be thankful he’s not still in a cell, it still makes a sharp prod of resentment grind into his belly.  He ignores it for the time being, preferring to grin and pull the elf even closer to his body.  “That’s ‘cause you haven’t lived with me.  I can be pretty irritating.”  He puts his nose into Orsino’s still-damp hair and inhales noisily, then sighs.  “Damn, you smell good.”  The hand on his back tenses again, and he feels Orsino’s lips curl into a smile against his skin.  Quietly, he chuckles.  “Was that our first fight?  ‘Cause if it was… maybe we should kiss and make up.”  He laughs again, thankful that he cannot see the man roll his eyes – he knows Orsino well enough to predict his response to this hardly well-phrased suggestion.  Samson waits for an answer, then pulls back slightly, grinning crookedly into Orsino’s face.  “Well?” he asks.

* * *

Samson’s grin is far too smug for Orsino’s liking. “Idiot,” he mutters in response, pulling away. He feels a sense of slightly vindictive satisfaction when the man whines a little but lets him go. Orsino walks back to his desk and picks up his comb, turning back to see that Samson hasn’t moved. “Come here and help me with this,” he gestures to the snarl of hair still at his nape, “and then we will talk about  _ making up _ .” He sits back down on the chair, watching the other.

That smug grin only grows as Samson ambles over to the chair, with each step a slow roll of his hips – a provocation.  Orsino cannot help the way in which his own mouth wants to curl in response to the look of him, but he bites the inside of his cheek and arches an eyebrow as he silently puts the comb into Samson’s hand.  Samson moves around to his back, and Orsino sits a little straighter in the hard chair. The first stroke of the comb is just a bit too hard and Orsino hisses, tipping his head back with the motion. “Gently, if you please,” he starts, but before he can say anything else Samson leans over and drops a kiss on his mouth, grin when he pulls back. Orsino tries to frown but finds himself incapable. Instead he raises a hand, plants it full across the man’s face and shoves him back a few inches. Samson only laughs. “Raleigh,” he mutters; warning, playful.

“Yeah?” Samson asks, and Orsino can still hear the laughter in his voice, barely tamed.  The next stroke of the comb is lighter, and then there are a few which work at the knots at the base of Orsino’s skull – short, gentle pulls, teasing out the tangles.  “Bloody Void,” Samson murmurs, sounding less amused now as he places a hand palm down on Orsino’s head, trying to prevent the comb pulling more than it must. “What did you wash your hair with?  I never seen so many knots.”

Orsino snorts, tipping his head forward and closing his eyes. “You’re one to talk. I forgot my kit and simply used what was provided. There’s a motive for keeping my hair as short as I do. One reason to be grateful for a receding hairline, I suppose.” He waits as Samson picks the last few knots out of it, smoothing the strands out. It’s been...years, at least, since he allowed another to help him like this. The repetitive motions are comforting, soothing the ragged edges of his nerves that weren’t washed away with hot water. “I will need a trim before we depart, I think.”

Samson laughs quietly, and murmurs, “Really?”  He keeps combing gently, his hands still soothing.  “Last time I cut my hair we were still in the field.  I must look like a wolf.”  He makes a few more passes with the comb, then asks, “That alright?  There’s no more knots now.”

Orsino hums, dropping his chin to his chest. “I’m not sure. Perhaps you should spend another few minutes doing that.”

“You think?” Samson murmurs, and suddenly Orsino feels his sharp nose nuzzle into the side of his neck, warm breath on the skin.  Samson presses his lips gently to Orsino’s skin, then moves up slightly to gust a short breath over the shell of Orsino’s ear.  He cannot control the shiver this movement elicits, then sighs as he feels Samson grin.  “You sure you want me to keep combin’?”

A content sound, and Orsino raises a hand, brushing the back of his knuckles against Samson’s rough cheek. “Hmm, I seem to recall something about you making it up to me, twice over now.” He straightens then, turning in his chair to look at the man. Samson’s still bent over, close enough to reach, so he does. He buries one hand in the hair that, yes, is starting to resemble the fur of a wild animal more than a man, and uses it to pull Samson’s unresisting face close enough their noses brush, lips not quite meeting. Samson tries to lean forward but Orsino’s grip prevents it. “Are you going to make good on your promise today?”  

* * *

His heartbeat seems to hammer in his ears – Orsino’s grip is tight and  _ Maker _ , this close he smells glorious.  Samson tries to kiss him again, moving forward quickly, their lips brush then Orsino tugs him back.  “Well?” he asks, and there is humour in his voice, a steely kind of humour that sends desire coursing around and down, inside Samson’s body.  The feeling is so intense that his eyes close for a moment, he huffs out a breath and puts out his hands, feeling the soft cloth at Orsino’s waist beneath them.  “Yeah,” he mutters, “Alright then.”

“You could muster a bit more enthusiasm,” Orsino deadpans. 

Samson grins. “‘Spose I could,” he says airily. “You want me to get down on my knees?  Ask usin’ my most  _ gentlemanly _ manners if I can suck your cock?”  He chuckles, hands restless now, pulling up the fabric of the tunic Orsino wears, wanting to feel the skin beneath. “Wanna kiss you, ‘Sino,” he murmurs. “I wanna taste you, wanna touch you any place you want me to.”  His breath is coming shorter, his throat feels dry as he finally pulls the tunic free, plunging his hand underneath it, stroking upward with his whole hand, feeling each rib, the satiny touch of Orsino’s skin.  “‘Sino,” he mutters again, pulling forward once more, not even caring any more about the grip Orsino has in his hair. “Please.  I promise.  Anything you want.”

* * *

Maker, but he adores this man. Few people in Skyhold would claim Raleigh Samson possesses any kind of eloquence – not in daily conversation – but Orsino’s witnessed the way his words spill when passion stirs him, reckless but honest in a way that drives straight to the heart of the matter on which he speaks. It’s always enough to make his breath catch, his heart speed; especially when Samson’s eyes are on him – all that love and desperation, fixed on him. 

He smiles, lets Samson close the gap between their mouths. His hand is hot on Orsino’s chest, pulling focus away from the interplay of their breaths, Orsino’s teeth scraping over the man’s bottom lip as he reels him in closer until Samson, as promised, drops to his knees. Orsino parts his legs to accommodate him, releases his hair to cup Samson’s face with both hands. He runs his thumbs over sharp cheekbones and the edge of his jaw, mapping every angle and rough patch of stubble, trying to engrave this moment on his memory. 

He groans when Samson skims a hand up his thigh, stopping just short of the place where Orsino’s cock is already beginning to push against the confinement of his trousers. “Lee,” he murmurs against his lips, not quite begging – not close enough for it – but far too often Samson makes him stumble over his words, tongue-tied and unable to express what he wants, or just how much Samson means to him. He bites the inside of his cheek again, meeting Samson’s gaze steadily before he looks down to the stone on which the man kneels. “Shall we move this to bed?”

* * *

“Yeah, please, yeah,” Samson half-murmurs, half-groans.  He struggles to his feet, unwilling to relinquish his hands from Orsino’s skin for longer than he has to – he takes hold of his hands, pulling him up off the chair and into his arms. Samson nuzzles into the other man’s cheek, kissing the edge of his jaw, bent awkwardly forward as he tugs at the hem of Orsino’s tunic again, trying to pull it over his head without breaking the line of tiny kisses he is now planting across Orsino’s temple.  The elf laughs, pulls back to throw the shirt off, and Samson grins at him, reaches out to gather him into his embrace again.  He feels as if he is hanging on the edge of something, some huge structure – and while he knows this feeling is beautiful in and of itself, the anticipation in it, the sheer, white-hot excitement of the moment, he knows that what comes after is more, so much more.  On a whim, he kisses the crest of Orsino’s cheekbone and murmurs, “Gonna carry you.”

“Raleigh, wha-?” Orsino begins to bluster, and then Samson has lifted him clear off his feet, one arm supporting the middle of his back, the other under his thigh.  Seemingly on instinct, Orsino wraps his legs around Samson’s hips, peering down at him for an instant before bending to kiss him fiercely.  

Samson kisses back, his lips curling even as he does.  He takes one step forward, then another, mentally trying to envisage the layout of the room; however, as he approaches where he remembers the bed being, he pulls back slightly and laughingly tells Orsino, “Hang on.  Gotta look where I’m goin’.”

Orsino murmurs in amused agreement, then curves his spine down, wrapping his arms around Samson’s shoulders, kissing his neck, one hand moving up and into his hair once more.  Samson takes a final step, braces himself, and bends slowly – he realises that part of his mind has been lamenting how easily he has lifted and carried Orsino, at how little he weighs.  The grin slides away for a moment, to be replaced by a rueful smile.  Then the narrow bed takes Orsino’s weight, and Samson lays him gently down on his back, pulling his arms out from under the elf’s body.  “There you go,” Samson tells him quietly, their faces only a bare distance apart.  He can’t help the way his eyes rove over Orsino’s features, the happiness which dances along each nerve, every sinew of his body at the way Orsino returns his gaze.  “Anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are?”

The skin around Orsino’s eyes crinkles with the force of his answering smile. “Only you, several times now,” he remarks, pulling against Samson’s shoulders to rise up enough their noses brush. One of his hands leaves Samson’s neck to card through his hair again. “Do you know what I think when I look at you? Strong.” Orsino’s hand slides down his neck, over his shoulder to squeeze at the curve of his bicep. “Persistent.  _ Breathtaking _ .” A pause for Orsino to press a gentle kiss to his lips before he lays back against the bed. “Mine.”

“Well,” Samson chuckles, feeling a pleased blush creeping up his neck, even as he rolls his eyes dismissively, “I dunno about that other stuff –  _ strong  _ and  _ persistent _ sounds a lot like  _ dumb _ and  _ stubborn _ to me – but…”  he leans down closer, so close that he can feel Orsino’s lips against his, even as he murmurs, “I sure am yours.”  He swallows, nuzzling the tip of his nose into the side of Orsino’. “We done talkin’?”

Orsino’s eyes go wide with mock hurt. “You always ask that, Lee. Are you tired of my voice already?” Samson’s expression must be amusing because Orsino laughs a moment later. “Yes, I think we’re finished for now. Come here.” Samson goes, Orsino’s limbs still wrapped around his torso and pulling him closer. Orsino bites at his lips again, groaning quietly when he replies in kind. The elf lets go of Samson’s arm, running both hands down his back, nails sharp even through the fabric of his shirt. He reaches the hem, tugs up until the tunic is scrunched under Samson’s armpits. He doesn’t pull it farther, obviously just as reluctant to break their kiss as Samson is.

Samson moves one arm up, struggling to try and pull it out of the sleeve without removing his mouth from Orsino’s, but soon gives it up as a bad job.  He grunts, pushing himself up, quickly pulling his shirt over his head, casting it onto the floor.  Swiftly, he moves down again; pauses for a brief moment over Orsino’s lips, then kisses him once more.   _ Maker _ , he thinks, feeling the languid swipe of tongue inside his mouth, the taste of the other man, the huffed breaths and creak of the old bed and shuffle of the small movements they make together making a kind of music.  _ Maker, don’t take him away from me.  I love him, I love him, anything he wants.  Anything at all _ .  Samson’s hand goes into Orsino’s hair and he runs his fingers through it, tugs it lightly.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, as if to assure himself of the other man’s presence. “‘Sino.  Love you.”

* * *

Orsino hums, revelling in all the warm flesh under his hands, the way Samson gasps and shudders when Orsino drags his fingernails over his shoulder blades. He presses harder in response to Samson’s words, luxuriating in the man’s hand in his hair, caressing him like Orsino is something precious. His breath is coming faster now, Samson’s warm weight offset by how tightly his thighs are wrapped around the man’s hips. “Maker, Lee, I love you too. So much.” He presses up, gasping when his erection rubs at Samson’s yielding heat through their trousers. If he were braver, his control over magic a little steadier in this situation, he might risk simply reducing the clothing to ash. It’s a terribly tempting thought, but fire and poor concentration and Templars are a volatile mix – one even his lust-clouded mind can see isn’t worth the risk. His groan in response to the thought is full of frustration and he breaks their kiss to shove Samson back enough to get at the laces of his trousers. “Lee, get- get these off before I rip them off you.”

“Rip ‘em off then,” Samson growls, his voice full of want, even as his fingers fumble at the knots.  His hands are shaking, Orsino sees it, and the idea that Samson is so worked up is so thrilling that he cannot help but smile.  Samson grunts, finally getting the knots untied – then even as he wriggles the trousers off his hips, he leans down, pressing once more to Orsino’s lips.  He is obviously trying to get his pants off at the same time, and Orsino cannot help but chuckle a little in response to the frustrated grunts that Samson makes as he tries to stretch his arms down far enough to continue removing his pants, even as he leans forward into Orsino’s kisses.  Finally, with a desperate growl, he gets up, pulling trousers and smalls off at once, then gesturing impatiently to Orsino.  “Come on, come on, get ‘em off,” he mutters.

Orsino would laugh again if he weren’t equally as desperate, though thankfully his fingers remain steady enough the laces part easily as he lifts his hips up, shucking the remaining clothing in one smooth motion. He tosses them aside, sitting up even as Samson slides back onto the bed. Orsino tugs at him, arranges limbs until Samson is kneeling over his thighs as the man leans down for another searing kiss. Both hands on Samson’s hips, Orsino coaxes him to sit in his lap and gasps when he does, their groins pushed together sending a stutter of pleasure up his spine. “Void,” comes out more breath than word, his hands gripping tighter as he rocks them together. And Samson lets him, growls into his mouth and bends slightly to press kisses at the spot where Orsino’s earlobe meets his neck. Orsino stops paying attention to the sounds he makes, after that. He closes his eyes, tilts his head to give Samson better access and lets himself fall into the sensual motion of the moment – Samson’s muscles working under Orsino’s hands, the way the hair on his thighs tickles and scratches at Orsino’s own hairless legs, Samson’s hands skimming over his arms, splayed across his chest and in his hair. 

And then Samson’s fingers find his ears, and Orsino groans – long and loud and  _ Maker _ , the way it changes pitch as Samson rolls each point between his thumb and forefinger, so gently; the way he makes a short sharp gasp and seems to hold his breath when Samson runs the tips of his fingers over the outer shell, down toward the lobes.  It feels almost  _ obscene _ , on some level, to… to  _ inflict _ this much pleasure on such a visible part of the body, almost indecent.  Something in Samson makes him grin at the thought of reaching over in the dimness of the Chantry, reaching up to Orsino’s ear, the way he’d bite his lip, toes curling as he can feel them now against his calves, the stifled moan he’d give.  The image of it sears over his mind, and he kisses harder, panting, then pulls both fingers and lips away.  When Orsino chases his mouth with his own, Samson pulls back again and mutters, “Tell me what you want.  Maker, fuck Sino, the way you sound… I can’t, I can’t take it.  You sound like… Fuck.  Fuck me, do you want to?”

The elf shudders against him, face turned up to look at him with wide, green eyes even as his grip goes tighter around Samson’s waist. “Yes, I- if you want it, but…” he trails off, and Samson has the pleasure of seeing a red flush spread over Orsino’s face again. One of his hands shift, sliding over his arse and a few fingers press up against Samson’s hole, making him jolt. “When I’m finished, I want to...to lick it out of you. I want you to come on my tongue.”

“I… oh, Maker…”  is all Samson can manage for a moment, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath.  He holds it for a moment, then sighs, “Yeah.  Fuck.”  He swallows, takes another hitching breath and nods.  “Yeah.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nothing much but porn in this one.

Orsino lets out a sharp sigh that gusts over Samson’s face, just far enough away that Orsino would have to stretch to kiss him again. “You’re… you’re so good. Maker, Lee. I can’t believe you’ll let me... I just. I want you, as many ways as I can have you.” His heart hammers, hands free from tremors only by sheer force of will as Samson’s dark eyes bore into his own. He leans up and Samson moves to meet him, both of them so eager it’s only luck that keeps their teeth from crashing together. 

The oil comes to hand almost without thought, his fingers pressed against Samson’s entrance hot and slick so suddenly that Samson gasps into his mouth. Orsino barely pauses, pushing his first knuckle slowly but steadily past the ring of muscle. Soon Samson’s panting into his mouth, Orsino not far behind as he works another finger into the man, scissoring against the slick press of muscle as best he can at this angle. Samson rocks against him, pushing back into Orsino’s fingers then forward into his erection until Orsino’s patience starts to wear thin. He brings his free hand to Samson’s hair, tugs down and to the side until Samson’s neck is bared at just the right height. He latches on, sucking hard at the join of his shoulder even as he delves a third finger in. Tension builds in Orsino when Samson whines and shudders – he almost withdraws but then the man is pushing back against his hand, grinding down against the extra stretch. 

“Uh, uh,  _ please,  _ ‘Sino,” Samson groans. “ _ ‘ _ Draste, uh,  _ fuck _ , I… I,  _ ‘Sino _ , please, oh it feels good, feels so…”

Orsino can’t quite hold in his own desperate moan in reply. He thrusts his fingers in a few more times, curling them up inside, tugging at the rim of muscle in order to elicit a response. Finally, he can take it no longer. Orsino wrenches his fingers out quickly, calling more oil to hand even as Samson cries out at the sudden removal, and leans back far enough he can reach between them to smear oil on his own cock. Magma builds under his skin, setting fire to everything below Orsino’s waist as he fights just to coat his cock and nothing more – already too hard to chance it. He leans in, laves against Samson’s neck before following it with a sharp bite. 

“On your knees.” The words come out as more of a growl than he meant, but he can see the immediate effect this has on Samson. He gets up off Orsino’s lap instantly, hands braced on Orsino’s shoulders. Orsino steadies himself with one hand until his cock is at the right angle for Samson to sink onto him. He looks up, catches a breath at the sight of Samson poised above him, gazing at Orsino with eyes black from lust.

He can only smile in response. “Come here.” His free hand goes to Samson’s hip and guides him down, down.

* * *

Samson pants hard, mouth open, eyes on Orsino.  It’s all he can do to gather the last remnants of his self control around him – he uses that feeling to sink slowly down, letting the pressure that Orsino is exerting on his hip act as a guide.  When the tip of Orsino’s cock touches his hole, he groans, feels the slick muscles tighten in anticipation; he takes a deep breath, trying to relax sufficiently.  Little by little, Orsino’s cock enters him – he is completely insensible to everything else.  There is only the blaze of the elf’s eyes in the gloaming of the lamp, the pleasure mounting within him, only Orsino’s hand on him, Orsino’s breath, the way his body slowly relaxes to accept Orsino within him.  He rocks up and down on Orsino’s cock, taking him deeper with every motion, his eyes slowly falling closed.  “Look at me,” the elf murmurs, and Samson does, biting his lip, his brow creasing.  

“Sino,” he murmurs, the motion of his hips stuttering briefly, then continuing, a little more firmly.  Samson arches his neck, whining deep in his throat as the pleasure builds within him – he feels Orsino buck under him once, twice, and shifts his hand down Orsino’s body to his waist, muttering, “W-wait _ , _ ” as he does it.  And Orsino stills under him, eyes wide as Samson’s fingers curl against his skin, one tight on his shoulder, the other drawn into a fist against his waist.  He begins to ride Orsino harder, moving down further with every thrust, cheeks red, breath swift with effort.  Finally, he sits astride Orsino, their hips flush, Orsino’s cock deep in Samson’s arse.  He’s moved both hands into Orsino’s hair, and once more his eyes have dropped closed, but he can’t he just can’t because,  _ Maker damn it _ , it feels so,  _ so _ fucking good, every thrust a bright burst of pleasure, almost painful in its extremity.  It’s so good, too good, to have this, to have all of this; he feels outside himself almost, everything in the world other than the sensations within him utterly a blur.  Samson keeps moving, short moans escaping him now as he feels Orsino jerk roughly upward, as he cries out, as everything within him tightens and builds ever up to that zenith, that bright, beautiful place.  

“Fuck,” he whines, finally finding his tongue, knowing it is almost too late. “‘Sino, ‘Sino, I’m gonna, I can’t…”

* * *

Orsino has a very small amount of time to make a choice. He has plans, knows exactly what he wants to do to this gorgeous, wanton specimen of a man.  _ I want you to come on my tongue _ , he’d said – the image and imagined taste nearly enough to undo Orsino even when he’d been fantasising about it in his office, far removed from Samson’s touch. 

Now, with Samson sinking down on him over and over, warning and begging him for orgasm, Orsino can’t find it in himself to deny him when doing so seems cruel. Some other day, he’ll lock the office door and perhaps Samson will allow Orsino to bend him over the desk and pleasure him with his mouth until he’s wrung dry. 

For now though, Orsino finally allows himself to drop back onto the bed so he can use his legs to thrust, cupping the man’s arse with both hands as he relishes Samson’s moans pitching higher, becoming more ragged as Orsino starts to drive into him harder. 

He feels dizzy, fixated on the soft red of the lip Samson bites and releases in an effort to stifle his moans. He catches Samson’s hand when the man moves to muffle himself again – both their instincts are old, the urge for silence ingrained through long years of taboo and the threat of retaliation should one be caught in the act. But Orsino has been trying, desperately, to stamp out those habits that remind him of the Circle, and they are safe now, here and together and no one can punish them for this love anymore – not anyone he cannot retaliate against, anyway. 

Orsino kisses the captured hand, drags his teeth over knuckles even as he thrusts up and looks into Samson’s wide, desperate eyes. “Let me hear you, Lee. I want to hear you say my name as you come.”

* * *

“Nuh,” Samson pants, and stops his thrusts dead, lifting his hips higher without warning – his eyes squeeze shut as Orsino almost pulls out of him completely, then thrusts shallowly back in, before stopping the motion entirely.  Samson’s hand slips out of Orsino’s, going instead to the back of his neck, groping blindly for purchase.  His heart hammers in his chest, every fibre screaming at him to keep going, but those words, those words of Orsino’s –  _ want to lick it out of you, want you to come on my tongue _ – and the shiver of anticipation that even their remembrance gives him, they are worth even this.  Maker, the idea of it, the image, the imagined sensations of Orsino’s tongue in his arse and the heat of his mouth on his cock, it just… he gasps a breath, holds it briefly, then releases a long, low moan.  Then, his self-control wraps around his mind, gossamer-thin though it is, and he knows he can do this.  He feels the large muscles in his thighs begin to ache and quiver with the effort of holding himself over Orsino like this and he clings to the physical sensation.  “Lee, what… what is it?” Orsino murmurs, and Samson feels a gentle hand on his cheek. “Oh, Maker – you aren’t hurt, are you?”

Samson shakes his head quickly, pushes his cheek closer into Orsino’s hand.  He takes a deep breath, blows it out again, trying to find his voice.  After a brief pause, he does.  “Close, ‘Sino, real close,” he mutters, “but… but you said… Please.  I wanna.  Your mouth.  If you wanna.  Please.”  For the moment, that is all the articulation he can muster, and instead he tries to communicate his desire in his hands and in his eyes, opening them to blink at Orsino as he runs his hands up the smooth skin of the elf’s chest, over the roughness of an old scar and across a nipple, up, up, into his hair.  Samson strokes it languidly, putting his forehead against Orsino’s, feeling the searing heat which seems to radiate from the elf’s body.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs softly, moving his fingers to curl around the backs of both of Orsino’s ears. “My ‘Sino.  Whatever you want.”

* * *

The Breach could rip back open, Skyhold’s walls collapse around them, and Orsino wouldn’t care. His heart quivers in his chest and he is torn in two, wanting to take what is offered – Samson and his body and heart on a silver platter – and wanting to bring the man to his peak _ now _ , damn Orsino’s earlier words. He wants to see the light spilling across Samson’s neck, highlighting tendons as he throws his head back, wants to see the tension and strain of his thighs as he comes on Orsino’s cock. He wants and wants and Samson strokes his ears gently and Orsino can’t take this. He sucks in a gasping breath and with great effort pulls out of Samson, who grunts in complaint – then again in surprise when Orsino pushes his thighs wider, quickly slithering his body through the gap until his head is beneath Samson’s hips, his feet now hanging over the edge of the bed. 

“‘Sino-” Samson starts, one of his hands tugging at Orsino’s hair as if to pull him back up, his other falling to the bed and acting as a brace when Orsino reaches from behind and yanks the man’s hips down. The scent of Samson’s skin, of sweat and oil and arousal is immediately overwhelming, and it takes a moment of shifting for Orsino to find a position where he can breathe against the weight. 

And then he licks – a slow, flat-tongued pass over Samson’s entrance, slicking oil over his taint until Orsino reaches the base of his balls. Flesh trembles under his hands, though Samson’s muscles stay locked in position as he wheezes; whether in surprise or distress Orsino doesn’t know. Orsino pauses, waiting for Samson to speak. When he doesn’t, Orsino blows lightly over the streak of saliva he left and is rewarded with a full-body shudder on Samson’s part. 

“Maker, oh Maker, please, yeah,  _ please _ , ‘Sino,” he hears Samson say, a breathless chant, and then the man groans, “ _ please _ .”

* * *

He can’t, oh Maker, he can’t, can’t do it, can’t hold this feeling in.  That hot breath on his body, the delicate swipe of tongue on his arse, he just… Helplessly, Samson rolls bonelessly forward onto his forearms, hips still raised at the angle Orsino had shoved them into, his fingernails scraping his scalp as he digs his hands into his hair, grips it and pulls.  “‘Sino,” he whines softly into the mattress, pulling the sibilant sound at the beginning out into a hiss, the long vowel at the end out into a noise of pure pleasure.  Samson pants hard, breath hot and wet against the skin of his forearm.  His whole body responds when Orsino licks him again, another long stripe up to his balls, then takes one into his mouth, suckling on it gently, before releasing it and performing the same on the other.  Samson feels the long fingers toy with his fucked-open hole, so wet, so wide, and he cannot help the shallow thrust of his hips.  Orsino works his other hand from Samson’s thigh, underneath his stomach to grip Samson’s soft cock.  His abdominal muscles are painfully tight with the feel of it, Maker, the feeling is… it is everything, everywhere, anything good that he’s ever done.   _ Orsino _ , his mind whimpers, and though he makes the shape of the word, no sound comes,  _ Orsino, Orsino, Orsino. _

Slowly, Orsino’s fingertips circle the sensitive rim of Samson’s hole, teasing and testing with every motion.  Samson feels Orsino adjust his position slightly, and then there is a long lick up the shaft of his cock.  All he can give in response is a breathless, reedy moan – his fists clench in the sheets again, almost pulling them out from under the mattress, his nostrils flaring and eyes squeezed shut.  “‘Sino,” he begins to say, the only way he has of pleading with the man beneath him now, but the word turns into a hoarse shout as Orsino does two things at once – slowly and inexorably slides two fingers up inside Samson, and takes the head of his cock into his mouth.

* * *

The  _ sounds _ , Maker, the sounds Samson makes… He’s never had a partner who let themselves go like this – never been allowed one – and all Orsino can think is that this,  _ this _ is what breaks him. Raleigh Samson will spoil him for everything and everyone else and Orsino is desperate to be ruined. Gentleness makes way for the rough motion of his hand inside Samson as he seeks to draw out more of those lovely noises. He sucks harder, too, mouth already filled with the taste of precome as Samson’s back arches and he jerks forward against Orsino’s jaw with another loud groan. 

He feels hot all over, that magma building up in his hands, his lips as they slip against skin, in Orsino’s own neglected cock now leaking over his stomach. Orsino slows for the space of a breath, the fingers buried in Samson’s hole tingling a bit as he calls more oil to bear and slides a third finger in. 

Then, moments later, a fourth. And Samson keens when he thrusts in, swears dropping from his mouth with such vehemence that Orsino can’t help but smile as he builds the rhythm again. It doesn’t take long – Samson’s cock feels heavier on his tongue even if it never stiffens, the bitter taste of him stronger. He basks in the sensation as Samson clenches down on his hand. Samson’s moans peter out for several short, spasmodic moments and he gasps Orsino’s name. 

His mouth floods with Samson’s seed and Orsino cannot do anything but swallow him down, sucking until he’s gotten all he can from the man. His fingers still when he finally tilts his head back, looking up at the shuddering muscles he can see outlined in Samson’s belly. They jolt when Orsino pulls his fingers out, still wound tight from orgasm. 

Orsino’s own cock demands attention, but he ignores it as best he can – he has Samson right where he wants him and he’s not letting this opportunity pass him by. Without a word or pause Orsino repositions again and pushes his tongue into Samson’s hole. Samson shouts, practically bolting upward in an effort to flinch away but Orsino catches the man’s hips and pulls him down again, swirling his tongue against Samson’s rim and relishing the sounds.

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, ‘Sino, fucking Void-” Orsino pulls back his lips, lets his teeth just barely graze Samson’s hole and is rewarded with a moan so ragged it sounds almost inhuman. “Orsino, Maker, I can’t...mercy! Mercy, please, I can’t take it.” 

Finally, Orsino relents and pulls away, panting into the vee of Samson’s thighs as the man shudders uncontrollably. He wriggles up just enough to have breathing room, runs soothing hands over Samson’s back, curls his wrists around so he can do the same to the thighs still bracketing his shoulders. Orsino’s chest heaves, his heart is racing – he doesn’t want to move, not for anything.

* * *

He doesn’t...

It’s… and when he...

Oh,  _ Maker. _

Samson feels as if his mind has been blown apart, then put clumsily back together again.  He cannot remember anything but for the vapor-trails of sensation against his skin, remembered elements which still send a strange, delighted chill through his flesh.  Lying with his temple resting on the clammy cotton sheets, Samson recounts as much detail as he can, trying to sear every minute into his memory.  Everything seems to tingle, his heart feels as if it will burst through his chest, and that lingering sensation when Orsino had… Maker, even thinking about the light, strange feeling of Orsino’s teeth on him makes his toes curl.  Slowly, gingerly, Samson moves his head, rubbing his forehead against his arm, sighing.  He wants to speak, wants to ask Orsino how he is, what he can do for him, to him, but there are no words which easily come to mind.  

Once more, Samson takes a deep breath, trying to will his body to move.  He can feel Orsino’s head still in-between his legs, and the anticipation is both wonderful and brutal.   _ What the Void are you anticipating?  _ he wonders, astonished.  _ Any more of that and you’ll never wanna get out of this bed. _  That thought brings a smirk to his lips – that particular ship has well and truly left the harbour.  As his euphoria begins to fade, Samson sighs again, and groans quietly, shifting slowly up so that his forearms rest against the mattress.  He looks down at Orsino, contemplating the depth of feeling he has for this man.  It still astonishes him;  _ Orsino _ still astonishes him.  Samson’s throat tightens slightly, and he bites his lips together, then grins and chuckles quietly.  “‘Sino,” he croaks, “you’re amazin’.  Tell me what you want.”  He pauses, clearing his throat, then murmurs, “I’ll do anything.  For you.”

* * *

The words take a long time to soak in, but they eventually process in his mind and Orsino stills in the wake of Samson’s laugh breaking over him. The heat in him is urgent, but not so much that Orsino cares to take his hands away for even a moment, to leave the cradle of the man’s legs when there are so many inches of unexplored skin left. He tilts his head back, meets Samson’s eyes framed by sweat and strands of soaked hair that trail down past his nose as the man smiles. 

Orsino answers with one of his own, a reply taking a long time to form as he lies there – nothing seems adequate to express how his simultaneous contentment and deep need for release keep him where he is. He hums, presses a kiss to Samson’s knee with a sigh. His hand leaves Samson’s back to run over his own cock, still wet from oil and precome. Sensation jolts through his belly and Orsino deliberately slows his breathing, trying to wrestle back some control. 

“I want you, Lee. I don’t-” he sucks a breath, stroking himself gently as he revels in Samson, above and around him. “You don’t need to do anything, I don’t need it. Just...just want you here, with me.” His eyes flutter closed and he arches a bit, turning again so his mouth is directly on Samson’s leg, not kissing but pressed against skin just above Samson’s knee. 

Everything is hot now, his own body like a furnace where it meets Samson’s, temperature rising with every solid stroke to his cock. Orsino could bring himself to climax quickly, he knows – orgasm is only a few harsh tugs away – but he wants to be here, under Samson with the man’s attention focused on him, ready to fulfill any whim. It’s intoxicating, that focus, stoking at something fierce and possessive in Orsino’s heart that is hard to scrutinize, even in his own head.  _ I want. I want him.  _

He moans Raleigh’s name into the quiet room.

* * *

That quiet moan, the way Orsino’s eyes never leave his own, it all tells him he should stay as he is.  But those words – _you don’t need to do anything, I don’t need it_ – they bring that bitter guilt crashing in on Samson.  He swallows, tries to ignore it, to stay where he is, to just enjoy the last feathery touches of delight… but he finds that they are all gone, fled under the crushing weight.   _You don’t need to do anything_ twists in his head, becomes _you can’t do anything for me, don’t trouble yourself, you’ll only fuck it up anyway_.  Samson stiffens, pulling his gaze away, squeezing his eyes closed.   _He doesn’t mean it like that_ , he tells himself sternly, but they keep circling anyway, those words, that vulture sentiment, waiting until his ego is sufficiently weakened so that they might return.  He can feel them, even now, as he takes pains to try and return his mind to the feel of Orsino’s lips on his thigh, the very slight movements he can feel.

“Lee,” Orsino gasps, then utters a harsh breath out.  For a second, Samson’s hands fist once more into the sheets… and then he moves, fast.  Some part of him assumes that the only way to rid himself of the guilt is to outrun it – and the only way to outrun it is through action of some kind.  It is completely unconsidered; he merely follows his instinct.  Throwing his body to one side, rising as he does, he slides off the edge of the bed so that he is eventually sitting next to Orsino.  The heat radiating from him is incredible, almost feverish.  “Can’t,” he says roughly as he puts his arms around him, pulling their bodies together in spite of the heat, “can’t stand it.   Wanna, Maker, fuck, Orsino – you’re… Maker, you’re…” He grunts, irritated by the inadequacy of words, and instead kisses Orsino’s parted lips, moving one hand into his hair, the other down his body to his hip.  Samson feels the shallow thrusts, the hitches of the muscles underneath the skin as Orsino’s hand works upon himself; he tastes himself in Orsino’s mouth as the elf groans again, high-pitched now, wanton, rapidly losing himself.  Maker, it is so good,  _ he _ is so good.  Perfect.  Samson breaks the kiss, panting a little, and murmurs, “You wanna come on me?  Huh?  C’mon, ‘Sino, please.  Lemme do something, I wanna.  Wanna watch you come, you fucking beautiful man.”  He grins slightly, kisses Orsino again, delighting in the sounds,  _ Maker _ , the sounds – a rhythmic gasping noise, the end of it rising into a reedy moan.  Samson growls, trying to encourage Orsino closer to him, smoothing his hand around Orsino’s hip and pulling him gently towards himself, before sliding his fingers between the cheeks of his arse, stroking gently.  He breaks the kiss once more and murmurs, “Please, ‘Sino, please.”

* * *

He gasps when Samson’s fingers brush against his hole, his hand speeding up in response. The slight movement, Samson’s pressing but not pushing in, sets Orsino keening and spreading his legs. “Fuck, Lee.” And he’s close, building to that edge and Samson is looking down at him with those fathomless dark eyes and Orsino wants to give him everything, all he has. He never wants this man to stop touching him, never wants him to look away and Orsino can’t articulate any of this as his brain starts to stumble and blur under the pleasure. “Please, Maker. Please touch me.”

The man immediately moves in, pinning Orsino with a strong kiss and the hand in his hair holding him in place even as Samson starts to stroke around his hole. Spikes of heat roll through Orsino, coiling heavy in his stomach with every motion. He moans again when Samson’s hand migrates to his balls – fondling and tugging gently when they begin to draw up. Orsino’s free hand flies to Samson’s shoulder, squeezing hard. “That’s- good, yes. I’m close. Ah, Maker, Lee.” He pulls on his cock a few more times, rocking against Samson’s touch as the heat all around him builds to something searing and inevitable. Then the magma breaks through, crashing over him and melting everything in white-hot fire as Orsino cries out. His fingers dig into Samson’s shoulder hard enough to leave bruises but he barely notices as semen spills over his stomach and Samson continues to roll his balls, drawing out the pleasure for another long moment. For a while, there is only the last vestige of his climax, the mingling of their breaths, and Samson’s hand on him before he smiles up at the man. A force of sheer warmth and affection sweeps through and he reaches to pull Samson into another kiss.

* * *

This is all he’s ever wanted.  This man, this moment.  There’s no words for this feeling, where he feels like the world is burning down around them, but everything he holds dear is safe, safe and here, here with him.  Samson sighs into Orsino’s mouth, a short, tired huff, and strokes the back of his head.  Once the other man relinquishes his lips, Samson nuzzles his nose against Orsino’s cheek, smiling contentedly.   _ Can’t believe it _ , he thinks, wondering what he did to deserve this – then he bites the side of his tongue, trying to stop the tears which threaten.  After the moment has passed, he grins down at Orsino.  “See?” he asks. “Bedrest has its perks.”  He chuckles a little at the sudden, sour look on Orsino’s face, and nuzzles his cheek again.  “Can’t wait to get you out of this place, old man.”  He moves his hand from between Orsino’s legs to drag the fingers through the mess on his stomach, then raises his fingers to his mouth, sucking thoughtfully, trying not to smirk at the look on Orsino’s face.  After he’s finished, he pulls the fingers from his mouth with a loud  _ pop! _ , grins as he leans forward to kiss Orsino quickly.  “Maker, ‘Sino.  You’re so good.”

Orsino leans into him, licking into his mouth. The elf hums as he pulls away, opens his mouth to speak- 

He is interrupted by a loud, low growl emanating from his stomach, and Samson has to bite back a guffaw as Orsino’s cheeks dust pink in embarrassment. “Ah,” Orsino starts, but doesn’t say anything else, falling back to the bed to cover his face with both hands. 

Samson makes a clucking noise, trying not to scowl in irritation.  “Right,” he says, grinning to cover it. “Guess what we’re doing next?  That’s right – eatin’.  Lucky you, you get breakfast in bed.”  He kisses the tip of Orsino’s nose and sighs quietly as he struggles up off the stone floor.  “Anything you particularly want?”

Orsino pulls his hands away from his face, still sprawled on the mattress with boneless ease that belies that small spark of belligerence in his expression. “Whatever they’re making for the midday meal is acceptable,” Orsino murmurs before turning to him with a small smile as Samson fishes his trousers off the floor. “I do hope you’ll be sharing it with me?”

The resistance in Orsino’s eyes makes him pause, trousers half unlaced.  He feels sticky, still slightly high, and more than a little hungry himself, but still he smirks. “Someone’s gotta make sure you eat it all.”  Samson narrows his eyes and slowly drops the grin. “But… I mean, I know Max said  _ bedrest _ , but… if you wanna come with me, that’d be alright, wouldn’t it?  Long as you can stand bein’ stared at a bit.”  He looks at the floor for a second, then back up at Orsino, “People ‘round here still seem to think I shouldn’t be out in the general populace.  That Dorian reckons he’s all bitter about not being the local pariah any more.”

That tickles a laugh out of Orsino, and soon the man is rolling over to sit up straight, tilting his neck back and forth until it cracks audibly. “If you wish for me to come, I will. I have no fear of being seen with you, Raleigh, considering that messenger yesterday. With the way rumors spread in this keep, I’ll be treated as such with or without your company.” Counter to the tone of his words, Orsino smiles up at him, leaning back on his hands. “On the other hand, if I am to take an order of bedrest seriously, it hurts nothing to have a handsome man delivering food to my door and waiting on my needs.” 

“Oh yeah?” Samson chuckles, then pulls his shirt over his head. “Should I send Dorian along then?”  He laughs louder, and shakes his head, tucking the tails of his shirt into his pants, “Wouldn’t have thought you’d throw me over quite that quickly, old man.”  He winks as Orsino rolls his eyes, and steps into his boots.  “Won’t be long, alright?”  He bends, cupping Orsino’s chin, kissing him gently on the forehead, then grins.  He turns, marches the few paces to the door and turns back again, telling the man mock-sternly, “Don’t wanna see none of this post-coital lethargy when I come back.  You better be dressed and ready for some serious relaxation.”  He bites his lip, smiling, then mutters, “Love you, ‘Sino.  Won’t be long.”  Then he opens the door, steps out and closes it softly behind him.


	15. Chapter 15

Orsino experiences a full minute’s worth of temptation to act completely contrary; just pull the blankets over himself and go back to sleep in utter defiance of Samson’s order. But that would be childish, and much as being given a command grates against his nerves he knows that Samson means well, that it was only a request full of teasing and there is little chance the man would protest if Orsino insists on eating in bed, naked as the day he was born. 

Most especially if he sits on Samson’s lap to do so. 

He shakes his head at himself, marvelling at the power his libido holds over him after the last decade of dormancy. If his cock twitches hopefully in response to the flood of images regarding himself straddling a fully-clothed Samson while the man’s fingers work into him, Orsino ignores it. He’s getting old, and there are only so many fantasies one can indulge in before it becomes slightly ridiculous. 

Orsino pulls on his smalls and trousers reluctantly, but the clean tunic he put on after the bath is now covered in dust where it fell crumpled next to his desk. He dumps it in the basket reserved for laundry before he fishes his remaining black shirt out of the chest at the foot of his bed.

 

It’s only when he’s searching for a bit of string or leather to pull his hair back does the earlier argument start to creep in. He feels a wisp of guilt curl in his stomach over some of the things he said. He’s more aware than anyone how hard it hits the man every time one of his people die from circumstances beyond control – Orsino felt the same way every time a mage at the Gallows was made Tranquil, every time an attack on Redthorne took another defender’s life. He shouldn’t have said it, never brought it up. 

But he was angry, felt trapped between that whisper in the back of his mind that said he was being caged again, and the realization that Samson was correct; that Orsino can go no further with this, not unless he wants to cause himself irreparable damage. It wasn’t right that he lashed out. And Maker, but the hurt on Samson’s face. Orsino knows, knows with all his heart that Samson loves him, but to have the man spell it out...

_ Twenty-four lives against mine _ . His breath hitches.

 

Both of them, so vehement about their causes, railing on the value of their people’s safety. Samson has weighed their importance, told Orsino he finds his weight greater. The realization is – should be – earth-shattering, because this… he can’t find words for what it means. But instead it feels like a great burden has been taken off Orsino’s shoulders; a decision solidified by the revelation of how terribly they need each other. 

Perhaps he should shake with the weight of it, feel the urge to flee in the face of something great that can tie him down fast and more closely than Redthorne ever has. 

Orsino finds a strip of leather in his desk drawer, uses the bone comb to neaten his hair until he can pull it back into a short queue. By the time he’s finished, his breathing is even once more. He sits on the chair, pulls the lyrium treatise closer and urges the magelight to hover over him so no shadows fall on the pages.

Orsino hums, letting the words distract him. He must apologize for what was said earlier. But after that… when the question he waits for is asked, he is content to have an answer ready.

* * *

“Oi!” the older woman slaps at his hand and glares at him.  The crust of the bread scalds his fingers, and Samson winces, puts them into his mouth, smells Orsino there.  “Serves you right,” the woman grouses, then shakes her head.  “You can wait like everyone else.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Samson says, taking his fingers out of his mouth. “It’s for the infirmary, can’t you..?”

“No, I bloody well can’t,” she tells him, bristling as they stand in the gloaming of the flashing fires, the dim, luscious heat of the kitchens belying the hustle and bustle of the people working there.  Samson steps lightly out of the way of a young man carrying two haunches of mutton.  “We’ve spent enough time feedin’ youse who’ve come in.  You can’t expect me to bend over backward for that blood mage, neither.”

 

Samson shrugs, trying to suppress a sneer.  “You have it your way then.  Won’t change nothin’ if I get this from the Hall or from here.”  He stares at the woman and tells her coldly, “Might make it harder for you with the Inquisitor though.”

The woman narrows her gaze and sets her hands on her hips.  “As if,” she tells him scornfully, “You can’t expect me to believe that the Herald’s got anything to do with a two-bit bully like you.  Now sod off.  And if I see you in here again, I’ll paddle your arse myself.”

He snorts at the sudden mental image, then shakes his head and turns on his heel.  It really does make no difference to him whether he gets the food from the Hall or from here.  But being baulked all the time, continually pushed back – he thought he’d left that part of his life behind.   _ Shoulda known better, dumbshit _ , he tells himself, then frowns as he hears a whisper from behind him.

 

“General,” an Orlesian-accented voice hisses, and he turns, eyebrow raised.  A young woman stands there, looking furtively over her shoulder, her hands full with a covered tray.  “It isn’t much,” she mutters, thrusting it forward, “but take this.  Careful, it’s hot.” He takes the tray from her and she smiles.  “Tell him, thank you.  And thank you for what you asked Antonine to do.  Her voice in the dark, when I was healing… it was what got me through.”

He stares at her, stunned, then realisation dawns. “Sophie, right?”

She nods quickly, smiles and turns, hurrying back to the kitchens.  “Thanks!” he says to her retreating back, and she flaps her hand at him and disappears through the door again.  Samson stands in the doorway for a moment, before hurrying back the way he came, carrying the tray carefully.

 

He makes it back to Orsino’s room, mouth already watering at the smell of stew –  _ even if it  _ is _ mutton again  _ – and stands for a moment outside the door.  “‘Sino,” he says softly, pressing tightly to the door, “‘Sino, it’s me.”

* * *

Orsino jolts out of his chair – the book occupied him more than he thought it would – and the magelight bobs behind him as he moves to open the door. Samson pushes through, a tray held in his arms that he sets on the desk. Orsino raises an eyebrow. 

“I thought it would take you longer, considering how crowded the Hall is on days like this,” he remarks, pulling back the cloth covering. The sight and scent of the stew sets his stomach to gnawing again, making no bones about the fact that he needs to eat and needs to do so now. Samson holds out the bowl that has a little more in it, pushing it into his hands until Orsino takes it.

“C’mon, eat up, old man. Gotta build your strength up.”

Orsino rolls his eyes but takes the spoon too when it’s offered. The first mouthful of stew goes down quick, and there’s a moment when his stomach churns as if deciding whether or not to rebel. Then it settles, and Orsino continues to eat even as he walks back to the bed, patting the empty space nearby in an invitation for Samson to join him. Samson does, and other than an exchanged glance as he sits, both men eat quietly. By the time he finishes Orsino finds himself pressed up against Samson, leaning into his warm body as the man scrapes out the dregs of his own bowl.

“I’m sorry,” Orsino says quietly. Samson stiffens beside him but Orsino doesn’t look up to gauge his expression. 

“Whaffor?” Samson asks, sounding if he has a mouthful.  A swallow, then the question is repeated, “‘Sino, what’re you..?”

“I am sorry for what I said to you, earlier, about your men. I was angry, yes. But I should not have lashed out as I did, especially in regards to such a… sensitive topic for us both. You said your apologies and I did not, so I am saying it now.”

* * *

Samson shakes his head.   _ No _ , is the first response that rises to his mind,  _ You’ve got nothing to apologise for. _  He takes a deep breath, mulling the words over, then carefully leans over, puts his bowl on the floor.  “You done?” he asks, gesturing for Orsino’s bowl.  Silently, Orsino hands it over and Samson grins at him.  “Good job.  Musta been hungry.”  

Orsino frowns at him, opens his mouth, but Samson shakes his head slowly, biting his lip.  Quietly, he tells Orsino seriously, “You told me I didn’t need to apologise.  Why do you think that you do?  It’s… look, it’s alright for you to get angry with me.  It’s fuckin’ _proper_ for you to get angry at me, at some of the stupid shit I say, at the dumb things I do.  ‘Cause Maker knows, there’s no shortage of that shit.”  He shifts, smiling sadly at Orsino, then sighs, lifting his arm and putting it around Orsino’s shoulders.  For a moment, there is quiet, then Samson tells him, “We ain’t in a Circle no more.  You don’t have to hide how you feel, you don’t have to work yourself to death to prove anything, and you sure as fuck don’t owe anyone anything.”  Samson squeezes Orsino’s shoulders and shakes his head again.   

 

The silence descends once more.  Slowly, Samson reaches out, puts his opposing hand on Orsino’s stomach.  “You know, it… means a lot to me that you… that you wanna do what you do.  For my boys, I mean.  It couldn’t have been easy.”  He sighs, wondering if Orsino knows how many of the Reds had refused treatment and gone to the headsman.  It was fifty-eight, last time he’d been told.  The hatred and fear of mages – especially mages who associate with the Forbidden School – runs deep among the general populace, even moreso among those who become Templars, and Samson is under no illusions as to why many of them had joined his cause.  The Circles, even the relatively enlightened ones, they were all breeding grounds for contempt and terror and suspicion – it was no wonder to him that when they started to fall, they had all fallen quickly.  His brow creases in concern, and he fights the urge to squeeze Orsino to him again.  “I dunno how you do it, really.  Make that… leap.  How you can bring yourself to help us, when all your life, pretty much, Templars have been…”  he trails off, unable to continue.  He clears his throat, lost in his recollections, then sighs.  “‘Sino,” he says softly, “thank you.  For everything you do.  I love you.”

* * *

Orsino sinks further into Samson, feeling conflicted. On one hand, he feels almost relieved. Even if Samson rejected the apology, he accepted the words, the sentiments behind it at least on some level. On the other hand...yes, there are times he could do with a reminder of exactly where and who he is with. It’s a depressing notion, to think that after over two years he still struggles to shed old thinking patterns and survival methods the Circle drilled into him. There are some ways Orsino can combat them, however, and he latches on like a man at sea, wrapping his own arm around Samson’s waist and tilting his head until it rests in the crook of Samson’s neck. The physical intimacy without fear of discovery is still new enough, daring enough to be grounding. 

“I love you, too,” he murmurs, squeezing slightly when Samson turns into him. Words fall away when he tries to reach for them, to respond in some semi-eloquent way to the man’s earlier assurances. In the end he can only speak and let what words will come spill out. “I know that I owe nothing to the Templars, that even the information you passed on to Redthorne was because you wanted to help us, that you were trying to make up for some of what was done to us at the Gallows.” He pauses, breathing in Samson’s scent, still underlaid with sweat and sex that could become distracting if he let it. “But...I can understand that not every Templar had a choice in this – they were pushed into service young, given away as babes and from there...well, when lyrium addiction sets in… You understand what I mean. It’s difficult, sometimes, to look at a Templar and not be...overwhelmed by the knowledge that they are part of an organization that hates and fears everything that I am – that I have learned to hate and fear in return.” He takes a breath, sighs. “And then there are those like you, who saw how ruined the way we lived was, who tried to do something – even when it wasn’t enough. I think of you, Raleigh. Every time I cleanse another Red, I try to remember that I’m giving them another chance to...learn better, to see something beyond the Chantry’s yoke. It...helps.”

* * *

“Does it though?” Samson asks him, and Orsino feels him shift as if he is suddenly uncomfortable.  The movement is barely perceptible, and after a second, it stills.  “Maker, the system… it’s… there’s, I don’t think there’s any way to fix it.  It’s just… ‘Cause it is a yoke, innit, not just the lyrium, but the  _ fear _ .  Fear is the way they keep control of all of us, and…” Orsino feels Samson’s head shake, hears him sniff.  “Not that what I was gonna do was gonna be any Maker-damned different than any of that.  Either way, someone gets screwed.”  

Orsino hums agreement, closing his eyes for a moment. “Fear lies at the root of many of Thedas’ troubles, I think. It is difficult to see clearly through it, especially when one is made to choose between two terrible options – such as following a darkspawn magister who promises freedom and power or falling back under the Chantry’s thumb. I’m not making excuses for you,” he hastens to say when Samson sucks a breath to speak, “only telling you that I understand the dilemma. But...I think there may be something. If the Inquisition can hold out on its current path, with its endorsement of freedom for mages and the mercy shown to the Red Templars... It may be a step in the right direction.” He bites his lip, not sure if he should say what leaps to mind, but Merrill had never promised him to secrecy, and he sees no reason not to share with Samson when he knows the man won’t spread it around. “Merrill tells me she has cause to believe the Nightengale will be picked for the next Divine.”

“Huh,” Samson tells him bitterly. “Won’t matter a damn who gets picked.  Last Divine we had tried to effect change, and look what happened – got caught in an extended pissing match between factions that had more interest in keepin’ the status quo in place ‘cause it suited their own ends.  I mean, it’s great if shit changes.  Just…” he snorts a quick laugh, “don’t expect this old dog to learn any new tricks.  I ain’t gonna start throwing roses just because there’s a new arse on an old throne.”

It shouldn’t be amusing, but Orsino turns his face into Samson’s shoulder to chuckle nonetheless. “While I agree, your unique turn of phrase isn’t quite how I thought of it before.” He sighs then, feeling worn. Speaking so often and uninhibitedly about his inner thoughts is exhausting, almost more so than the fatigue left by numerous cleansings. But there are tasks that must be done before the day is through. “I need to write a letter to Merrill, explaining your...proposal for my assigned bedrest. If we can obtain her agreement, the advisors will fall in line. I don’t know your opinion, but I would rather not fight with the Commander again at this juncture.”

“You and me both,” Samson sighs, and lifts his hand, rubbing it over his face.  “Right.  You do that, and I’ll go talk to Bull.  I gotta do some training shit with him too.”  There is a brief moment of silence, then Samson squeezes Orsino, “Hey.  I like talkin’ to you.  It’s nice.”  

All Samson receives in return is a quiet snort, and he chuckles.  “Alright, old man.  I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

* * *

Samson leaves Orsino’s room, closing the door gently behind him.  Orsino is seated at the desk, drafting a letter to Merrill – but Samson hopes that by the time he returns, he’ll be tucked up in bed and fast asleep.  He smiles a little to himself, nods at his guard, who looks surprised to see him.  “Was just coming to find you,” the lad murmurs, and Samson nods.

“Sorry, Harris,” he says, “got caught up.”  He looks at the guard again, shrugs, and beckons to him to follow.

 

They walk in companionable silence through the corridors and out into the yard.  The place has an air of controlled chaos – the Inquisitor is expected back any day, and word is that Corypheus marches ever closer.  Samson swallows nervously, then straightens his shoulders.  “Goin’ to see Bull,” he tells Harris, who nods, and they make a beeline through the yard, across the mud-slick ground and into the Herald’s Rest.

 

The Rest is quiet this early in the day.  But Bull is there, not in his usual seat this time, but in the middle of the room.  He stands with his back to the door, hands on hips, looking down at something on the table.  Krem stands next to him on his right, and on the left –“Fuck,” Samson murmurs, and stops so abruptly that Harris almost walks right into him. 

“What?” he says loudly, and at the noise, Cullen turns around.

 

They stare at each other for a second, then Bull and Krem both turn.  Krem grins at Samson, and Bull smiles a little and nods.  “Samson,” he says carefully, “come have a look at this, would ya?”

“I don’t think that’s a good…”  Cullen begins, but Samson walks forward, skirting the table, Harris following him.  He looks at what is spread out on the table, then shrugs.  “‘S a map.  Of a valley.  Where is it?”

“Fereldan,” Bull says, “The Valley of Sacred Ashes.”

“Right,” Samson says, then shakes his head, “Why exactly do you..?”

Cullen huffs in annoyance, then leans forward and pulls the map from the table.  “Bull, perhaps we might continue this conversation another time.  Samson, what do you want?”

“To talk with  _ my handler _ , actually,” Samson says, folding his arms over his chest.  “Whadda  _ you _ want,  _ Rutherford _ ?”

“Hey now,” Bull growls, then takes a deep breath, looking at Samson. “We gotta do that thing, yeah?  I got six new guys, two archers…”

“One of ‘em only has one eye, but Chief’s never let that stop him,” Krem laughs, and Samson grins at him.

“Between ‘em, they should get on well, then.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, yuck it up, you two,” Bull says tiredly, and frowns a little.  “You’re here for something else too, aren’t you?”

“Uh, yeah,” Samson says, then cuts his eyes to Cullen, who scowls.  “It’s Orsino.  He’s kind of fucked.  Workin’ too hard.  So… I’m gonna look after him for a bit.  Make sure he’s…”

“That is why we have an infirmary, is it not?” Cullen interjects. “I’m sorry, I don’t see the necessity of…”

“Yeah, well you  _ wouldn’t _ , would ya,” Samson growls, “Look, maybe it ain’t necessary, but he’s…”

“And the irony of it is, he was working  _ too hard _ to protect your men.”  Cullen takes a deep breath.  Bull frowns at him and opens his mouth, and Cullen waves him to silence.  “This has gone far enough.  I will be lodging a complaint with the Inquisitor.  She has too much to do, and this enterprise is now wasting valuable Inquisition resources.  Since the  _ arcane advisor _ now seems to have fucking vanished as well, we can no longer afford the time or the energy which it takes to bring your men back from their ruin.”  Cullen sniffs and shakes his head, looks away, then straightens his shoulders.  “The Iron Bull, Lieutenant Cremisius, I will expect you both in my office as soon as you are able.  We have much to discuss.”  And with that, he turns on his heel and walks out of the almost abandoned tavern.

 

“Fuck,” Samson whispers, then looks up at Bull, who shrugs.  

“Sorry, kid,” he says sincerely. “That won’t sit well with the Boss; but the Commander’s right.  It’s been a distraction for her, and… we can’t afford for her to be distracted by this any longer.”  He lowers his head slightly, then frowns.  “That wasn’t the whole of it though, was it?”

Sadly, Samson shakes his head.  “Wanted…” he clears his throat, raises his chin. “Just wanted to take ‘Sino – Orsino, I mean – take him away for a couple of days.  He’s supposed to be havin’ bedrest – thought it might be easier if we could get out of it.  Easier for him, without the temptation to work – easier for me, ‘cause then I don’t have to deal with a grumpy bastard.”  He smiles thinly, looks down at the table.  “Wanted to ask you what you thought first.”

 

He looks up to see Bull and Krem both staring at him.  Krem has an expression of resigned sadness on his face, chewing on a nail as he looks at Samson steadily – Bull’s expression is unintelligible.  Finally, he shrugs.  “See what the Boss says,” he says quietly. “Myself, I think you’d both be better off out of whatever happens next.  Shit’s gonna go down fast when it does happen, and it ain’t gonna be pretty.  Privately,” and here Bull lowers his voice, “the Commander’s pretty keen to put all the Reds – cured or not – in the dungeons for the duration.  Says about loyalty, and tactically, I gotta agree.”  Bull shrugs again and smiles slightly, “You weren’t to know any of that.  Way I hear it, you just wanna get your boys well again, get ‘em back into life.  That’s been my experience too.”  Bull sighs, and his smile grows, “I’ll support you two leavin’, if I’m asked.  Cullen’ll make noise – Koslun’s Balls, all the advisors will – but in the end, it’s the Boss that’ll make the call.  But for what it’s worth…” Bull reaches out, leaning over the table to pat Samson’s shoulder, “thanks.  I appreciate you comin’ to me first.”

 

Samson nods forlornly.  “Yeah, well, fat lot of good it did me,” he mutters, and sighs.  He looks up into Bull’s one eye and smiles ruefully. “Hey.  Thanks yourself.  I gotta go tell ‘Sino the good news.” He throws his hands up in the air and states, “Raleigh Samson fucks it up again!”

Bull chuckles, and Krem hides a smile behind his hand.  “Nah,” Bull tells him, “You’ll get through.  The Boss is pretty good with fuck ups.  I mean,” he laughs again, “have you seen us?  The Inquisition is  _ made _ for people like you.  Nobody here won first time.  Nobody here’s made all perfect decisions.  Team second chance, kid.  That’s what we are.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Samson says, flapping his hand, “See you, Bull.  Krem.”

“See you,” Krem murmurs, and Samson walks away, out of the Rest and into the yard, Harris trailing after him.

* * *

Orsino leaves the meeting with the advisors with Merrill’s response in hand and a severe headache blooming behind his brow. There had been a lot of arguing, quite a bit of yelling on the Commander’s part, and a long silent glare on the Nightengale’s end before she scoffed. “Our Lady Inquisitor has already decided, and the First Enchanter has already proven capable of...handling the man. As long as you are discrete, there should be no problem for such a short amount of time. The main force will simply be informed you’ve taken ill again. Of course, should anything happen, and the general of the Red Templars escape…”  _ it will be on your head  _ went unspoken in her icy gaze. Orsino bit back a sound of discontent and merely nodded. “You know of the back door?”

This question startled the other advisors, prompting a whole slew of new questions, but Orsino merely smirked and answered, “Of course.”

 

He makes his way to his quarters, noticing as he passes the windows that evening is giving way to dusk. The timing is fortuitous – they have enough time to rest for a while before setting out at a time when it will be difficult for others to see them. 

Samson is already in his room when he enters, packing away the last of the supplies requisitioned from the quartermaster for their journey. One pack was considerably larger, and Orsino had the sneaking suspicion that the one half the size and weight was his. Not that he could formulate a protest in his condition. 

“You realize we will have horses, do you not? You don’t have to worry about me carrying anything, Raleigh.” The man only grunts in reply, shoving another wrapped cloth full of dense honey-soaked oat bars into the top of his pack before he attempts to buckle it shut. The bag is already bursting to the brim, the tent they’ve been given attached to the bottom and a few blankets strapped to the top. Orsino sighs, brimming with fond exasperation as he moves to tug Samson away. “Come, we have a few hours until it’s safe to leave. Let’s spend our time doing something...less productive.”

* * *

“Bloody arsing thing,” Samson mutters crossly, struggling with the strap.  The saddlebags are worn, but the buckle is new, the brass bright and the leather too stiff to work easily through the gap.  He scowls at it, concentrating, then as the strap pulls home, Orsino’s words filter into his consciousness.  He blinks, then grins, looking to Orsino.  “Yeah?” he mutters, “What exactly did you have in mind?”  Samson turns slightly, pulling the bag off the bed as he does, allowing it to half-fall onto the floor, then steps into Orsino’s arms.  “Maybe you could tell me your thoughts on the Divine Beatrix?”  His smirk grows as he moves closer to Orsino, putting his arms around the man’s waist, pulling him closer.  Samson brings his mouth nearer Orsino’s, letting their lips move gently together, barely touching before murmuring softly, “Or the properties of elfroot?”

“Stop being obstinate and kiss me, idiot,” Orsino mutters.

Samson laughs, arching an eyebrow.  “You sure you don’t wanna talk about elfroot though?”  He can feel the tension in Orsino’s body, feel the way his breath hitches as he ghosts his lips over Orsino’s, only to pull back a little.  Orsino growls in frustration, and Samson chuckles then leans forward.  “Love you,” he murmurs, and pulls Orsino closer, wrapping his arms securely around the elf’s waist before kissing him firmly.

* * *

Eventually, Orsino makes himself break away. “Much as I am enjoying this, we do have only a few hours of rest before we must leave.” He presses another short kiss to Samson’s mouth, smiling at the man’s stifled protest and clinging hands, and presses their cheeks together to murmur in Samson’s ear. “I love you, too. And the sooner we depart, the sooner we can be away from this room.”

And how he longs to be away from it – the room that’s been his haven seemed more like a cage the last few days as Orsino practically devoured books and fought not to pace. It was Lady Montilyet who suggested a scenic point less than a day’s ride from Skyhold, still in the mountains but next to a small basin lake and sufficiently out of the way that the chances of them being stumbled upon by anyone else are slim.  Additionally, Maxwell stopped by with orders that Orsino was to eat at least two meals a day with some sort of meat included, which meant Samson would soon be demonstrating his hunting prowess or Orsino would have to practice paralysis runes – traps he’d never had much use for before Redthorne. 

It takes some coaxing, but eventually, he manages to pull Samson into bed with their clothes still intact as they listen for the bell that signals the passing of hours.

* * *

Skyhold is silent and still around them, under the waxing moon.  Midnight is come and gone, the stars shine crisp and cold up in the deep blue of the sky.  Samson takes a deep breath of the freezing mountain air, holding the saddlebag tightly so that its contents do not clank – he looks up, up to the brief glimpse of the sky above them as they cross the yard quickly.  Orsino leads, swift and near-silent, cowl drawn, head lowered, his staff wrapped and strapped to his back.  They are both alert for any sign of movement.  But none comes – not a whisper, not a caw from the ravens in the tower above, and they pass back into the shadows.  Orsino pulls open a narrow wooden door, half-concealed behind a mass of ghouls beard, and ducks inside.

 

The passageway is still, and smells of age and disuse.  As quietly as they can, they walk it – around and down the inside of Skyhold’s walls, ancient, timeless.  The fortress is full of strange secrets, and at least as far as Samson is aware, even the Inquisitor herself does not know all of them.  Eventually, the two of them come to another wooden door, boarded firmly with ironbark, latched with a new-looking lock.  From his sleeve, Orsino produces a key; he inserts it, and the lock swings wide.  He turns, smiling at Samson in the low, reddish glow of the torches burning on the wall, and pushes the door open.

 

There is a soft whinny, and Samson looks up, sees a man holding the bridles of two horses, a chestnut and a bay.  He blinks, frowning, and Cullen curls his lip and looks away.  “The Inquisitor asked me to come,” he says quietly. “She said it was important that as few people knew where you were as possible.  I am glad you did not keep me waiting.”

Samson takes a deep breath, ire rising in his throat… and then he exhales, glancing at Orsino, who raises his chin, looking at Cullen.  The ranges march off behind him, into the distance, and the silence is almost as cold as the light dusting of snow.  Finally, Cullen clears his throat.  

 

“I will not keep you longer than I must,” Cullen tells them softly, then stretches out a hand toward Orsino, gesturing to him for the saddlebag he carries, dropping the bridle of the chestnut horse as he glances quickly at Samson.  Silently, Orsino hands it to him, and Cullen proceeds to walk around the bay and strap it into place.  Samson does the same with the chestnut, which stamps a little, as if it, too, is impatient to be off.  He pats it on its withers, and it gives him another soft whinny.  Taking the bridle up again, he turns to see Cullen hand the bay to Orsino.  

 

Samson looks at Cullen, standing with his head bowed, one hand on the pommel of the sword he wears.  There is a long moment, during which Cullen seems to be struggling with himself, then he swallows audibly, and quickly undoes the buckles on the belt to which his scabbard is attached.  “Here,” he says, still without looking at Samson, thrusting the sword out toward him.  “Take it.”

Samson shakes his head, glancing again at Orsino, who shrugs, frowning.  “No,” he says, “I don’t…”

“Just take it,” Cullen says, sounding frustrated, “You’ll need it.  There’s a shortbow and quiver on the horse, but take this as well.”  Silence, then Cullen thrusts the sword once more in Samson’s direction. “Lee, just fucking take it.”

 

Slowly, Samson reaches out, takes the sword from Cullen.  It’s a good blade – not the one the Commander usually carries, the one with the lion’s head pommel, but good.  Quickly, Samson hefts it, checking for balance points, for weight, then pulls on the hilt.  The blade shines brightly in the moonlight; the edge is good, and Samson realises he is smiling.  He looks up, sees Cullen and Orsino both staring at him, and nods.  “Thanks,” he says, as sincerely as he can.

 

Cullen shrugs and shakes his head, looking as if he does not know what to say.  The quiet is smooth, uninterrupted until Orsino holds out his hand, murmuring, “The key, Commander.  We should…”

“Yes,” Cullen nods, and raises his chin, taking the key from Orsino.  “Safe travels,” he tells them quickly, then turns, walking back toward the little wooden door.  He opens it, walks through, and closes it behind him.  After a moment, Samson turns, looking at Orsino, who smiles at him cautiously.  Samson grins back, holding the sword in it’s scabbard close.  “Time to go,” he murmurs, and looks up at the moon, still smiling.

* * *

Orsino hunches slightly, pulling deeper into the cloak draped around him as if he could bury himself while on horseback. The Avvar cotton cuts back on the wind, but he’d be happier if he had some fur trim to line the hood and protect his ears. 

Samson laughed when he first pulled it out of the chest two days ago, called him a fancy shit when Orsino bundled it up next to a small stack of clothing. It’d been a gift from Hawke and Anders last Satinalia, back when Redthorne was finally starting to thrive and everyone grew tired of Orsino’s pointed comments about the weather. 

As it stands, he makes no remark on the cold biting at his limbs, simply follows Samson as the man leads, a map from Nightingale to their destination clutched in the man’s hand as they navigate by waning moonlight and the sky grey-edged with the promise of dawn. 

The scene is gorgeous, snow shining against dark rock and the occasional tree, but Orsino pays little attention to his surroundings beyond the typical low-level awareness for potential threats. Instead his gaze fixes to Samson’s back between his shoulderblades, Orsino’s mind still lingering on that moment by the door as the Commander pushed the sword on Samson; the way the blond man struggled with something when looking at Samson, something more than maintaining civility as Cullen’s eyes caught and lingered. It nags at Orsino, foreboding prickling at the base of his spine. But he can’t pin down exactly why the interaction bothers him, and it’s driving him a bit mad that the ex-Templar keeps shoving into his thoughts, considering how much he dislikes the man. 

Orsino keeps quiet, smiles when Samson starts humming a tune he doesn’t know, but otherwise is content to follow for a few hours as sunlight begins to streak bright orange against morning clouds and his stomach grumbles. He’s just reaching for his pack to fish out something to snack on when Samson calls a halt for breakfast. They pull to the side of the path, into a copse of scraggly mountain trees that offers bare shelter from the wind. Orsino groans, joints stiff enough from cold that he is grateful for the assistance of Samson’s hand under his arm as he slides off the bay. 

“Doin’ alright?” His concern is enough to soothe the irritation Orsino hasn’t even noticed building in him.

He smiles. “I’m well, just cold. Food?” 

They eat side by side, pressed close together on a rocky outcropping cleared of snow as the sun creeps over the lowest of the eastern Frostbacks, speaking little. Orsino listens to the wind through the pines behind them, the horses stamping in the snow, and the far-off call of a raptor as it searches for prey. Despite the chill, he finds himself enjoying the sunlight and the open sky overhead; peace settles gently, fragile but bright in the face of the freedom to wander as he pleases with no accompaniment but whom he chooses. Orsino looks forward to reaching their destination.

* * *

He sure does look pretty in that fancy cloak.  Samson takes another bite, hoping it covers his smile so that Orsino will not see it and ask what it is he is grinning like a fool for.   _ For you _ , Samson would have to tell him, and he knows exactly the look he would get in return – the roll of the eyes, the impatient clucking noise, the pleased twist of Orsino’s lips.  Samson frowns a little, studying surreptitiously the hunch of Orsino’s shoulders, and wonders if the elf would stomach Samson repurposing some of the fur lining in his gloves.  He chuckles quietly, thinking,  _ Have to do that on the sly _ , and Orsino looks at him, smiling in a puzzled way.  “What is it?” he asks gently.

 

Samson shakes his head and shrugs.  “You look cold,” he says. “Wonderin’ how I could warm you up.”  Briefly, his lips curl into a smirk, then he chuckles again. “Aside from the obvious, that is.”

“Really?” Orsino enquires, mock politely. “And what would the  _ obvious _ solution be?”

“Oh, well  _ you _ know,” Samson says blithely, dusting the crumbs from his hands, and leaning forward, reaching over and putting his hand on Orsino’s waist, “Just…” He presses closer, still watching Orsino; puts their foreheads together and waits a beat, parted lips over Orsino’s, before kissing him quickly and moving away again, grinning at the elf’s expression.  “Thinkin’ of puttin’ some of the fur from my stuff onto your cloak there.  Ain’t that fancy if it’s not keepin’ you warm.”

 

Orsino sighs, sits back and stares out at the mountain ranges for a moment, before clearing his throat.  “Raleigh Samson, you really are an awful tease,” he murmurs, and Samson laughs.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just as well for me you seem to like it.  Now,” he sniffs, “let’s get going, yeah?  Should be there in the next couple of hours.”  He rises slowly, back aching, not really looking forward to more time on his mount.  Still, to do Cullen credit, he hadn’t given them old horses – while these are certainly not the Inquisition’s finest, they are good Fereldan forders, at least.  He holds out his hand to Orsino, who clasps it; Samson pulls him gently to his feet.  He smiles at the man, then frowns slightly at the look on his face – while Orsino is smiling at him in return, there is something strained about it, something odd.  “‘Sino?” he asks. “What is it?”  He pauses for a moment, suddenly worried, then blurts, “I’m sorry if you thought I was leadin’ somewhere.  I just thought you’d wanna get on to where we’re goin’, more than you’d wanna do it in the woods.”  He raises his eyebrows, blinks, and asks, “Was I wrong?  I’m happy to be, if I am.”

* * *

Orsino can’t help but shake his head, an incredulous little chuckle escaping in response to Samson’s words. “I think both of us would be even happier if we’re somewhere warm and dry before we get distracted with each other.” He looks down, brushes the last of the crumbs clinging to his cloak away. “No, my thoughts were simply wandering. It’s...been a long time since I’ve had so much privacy and space.” He gestures out to the open road between cliff faces, the blue sky and jagged mountains against the horizon, then frowns. “Perhaps I never have, really. Between my childhood in the Alienage and travelling to Redthorne, I do believe this is the most alone I’ve ever been. It is a bit...disconcerting.” And it provides no distractions for his mind, which is already prone to fixating on a subject and gnawing away at it until satisfied. This makes it hard to concentrate on anything but his own thoughts, but at least Samson is here to pull him out of it. He looks to the man, sees the worry creasing his brow, and squeezes Samson’s hand firmly enough the leather of their gloves creaks. “Disconcerting, but not unpleasant,” he reassures, letting his lips twitch back up. “I appreciate the opportunity to spend time alone in your company, Lee. Give me time to grow used to it.”

A hawk screams in the distance again, echoing through trees and stone. Otherwise, nature is quiet but for the wind, lacking the hushed whispers of his peers down the corridor or the hustle and crash of training soldiers that has served as background noise his entire life.

When Samson continues to look at him, face twisting with uncertainty, Orsino tugs him close and presses a soft kiss to his cheek. “You’re worrying needlessly,” he murmurs against Samson’s skin before pulling away. “Shall we move on? I wish to see this luxury camping site the Sister is so adamant we occupy.”

Samson laughs, holds him closer for a moment before releasing him.  “Yeah,” he says, smiling softly, “let’s go.”

* * *

He hears the sound of the water and smiles.  The woods they ride through smell of embrium and new grass; the light is golden, falling dappled on the trunks of the old pines that their horses pick their way through.  Samson cocks his head, listening carefully.  He smiles, turns in his saddle to look at Orsino.  “Hey,” he calls softly, “this should be it.  Unless Bird-Lady’s map is wrong.”

Quickly, he dismounts, pulling the horse’s head around as he takes it by the bridle, leads it back through the long grass to where Orsino sits, still astride his mount.  “Need a hand?” he asks, taking hold of the bridle.  He looks up, half-conscious of the way his lips curl into a soft smile as he gazes at Orsino, and chuckles.  “Actually, you stay there.  No sense in you gettin’ off just to find that we’ve got a half hour’s ride yet.”

Slowly, he leads both horses forward through the trees.  When they reach the edge of the forest, he stops, scanning the place for threats – but as he looks at it, really looks at the place, he feels like… It feels like… “A dream,” he murmurs, finishing the thought out loud.  The sun shines brightly on a narrow clearing, one side buttressed by the mountain, the other by the forest.  To the east of it, there lies a pool, deep and clear, fed from a small waterfall which crashes joyfully into its depths.  Samson can see the water moving, knowing it must feed into an underground river at some point.  He looks back once more, sees the way that Orsino is sitting, the way he is looking at the scene around them, and cannot help his smile.  “‘Sino,” he says, “we’re here.”


	16. Chapter 16

Orsino can hardly tear his eyes away from the mid-afternoon sun glinting off the pool, a few early-blooming blood lotuses floating along its edge. It’s only when Samson calls his name that he can redirect his attention back toward the man. The bay stomps impatiently as he shifts on the saddle, and Orsino pats its neck with a soothing murmur before he swings his leg over its hindquarters and drops to the ground unsteadily. Samson is there in an instant, hands at his waist as Orsino straightens. 

“Careful,” he says gruffly, hands tightening as Orsino fumbles with the reins a bit before pulling them over the bay’s head. That done, he curls one hand over Samson’s.

“I’m alright, just a tad stiff. I’ve not much practice riding horses, as you well know.”

Samson looks as if he is trying very hard to smother a grin, then nods seriously.  “True,” he murmurs, then pauses, takes a deep breath, and asks, “You wanna go take a walk?  I can do this bit.”

Orsino snorts. “The untacking and grooming the horses bit? Or the setting up camp bit? Because one of those categories I’m quite competent in, and it will save us time if I help.”

“Are you  _ competent  _ at resting your arse?” Samson huffs, then sighs in not-quite-impatience, “Alright.  You go… hang on.  I’ll do the saddle, and you do the rest.  Only your horse, alright?  Then you’re done.”

Orsino stares at the man blankly for a moment, amusement welling up that he fights not to show on his face. He turns to look at the bay, then asks, deadpan, “So, which piece is the saddle?”

“Aw, bloody  _ Void _ ,” Samson grouses, scowling at Orsino.  He takes a deep breath in, lets it out and barks a laugh. “Go sit over there, you.  You don’t get  _ any _ jobs after that.”  He grins, shaking his head.  “Just as well you’re pretty.”

Orsino raises both eyebrows, feigning innocence even as he feels a little warmer for the compliment. “I don’t see how it’s  _ my _ fault your supposition of my skills was incorrect. Redthorne had no horses when they were needed for fleeing the Circles, and there were other people to care for them after that. At least give me the tent. With magic, it won’t take but a moment and then we’ll have somewhere to lie down.”

Samson snorts. “Oh,  _ we _ won’t be lying down anywhere.   _ You _ can go do the bloody tent then, and go have a lie-down.   _ I’ll  _ be sortin’ out the horses, for probably longer than it should really take, since  _ someone _ needs his rest.”  But his tone is delighted, and for a long moment he continues to look at Orsino, the light in his eyes warm, fond.  Finally, he shakes his head again and sighs.  “G’won then,” he murmurs. “Faster we do that lot, faster we all get a lie-down.”

Knowing that’s the best he’ll get from the man, Orsino concedes and allows Samson to unstrap the tent bag and hand it to him. He lets his hand linger over Samson’s for a long moment, touch warm even through the layers of leather, and smiles back at the man as he draws away. Flat ground is easy enough to find a dozen paces from the pool side. Orsino only has to kick two rocks free before he sets the bag down and yanks the contents out. Canvas, wood, and rope spill across cool earth and he surveys it for a moment, taking in what pieces will go where before he takes a deep breath and puts out a hand, palm down. 

This sort of task is one mastered only by very dedicated mages – anyone can learn to send people or objects flying with a telekinetic burst, but manipulating objects into specific places is a matter of deep concentration and the power to back it up. While Orsino’s body may be weak at the moment, his mind is clear and his mana still leaps to answer his call as first canvas, then wood and rope are enveloped in a cool green glow and seem to move of their own accord. The tent is very basic, easy to assemble and tall enough at its peak that Samson will only have to duck slightly to step in. It takes a moment of confusion to realize that someone hadn’t thought to provide stakes to secure the ropes. 

Orsino sighs, cursing mentally, and gestures with his other hand at a few of the smaller nearby boulders until they slowly shift and roll toward him. Another hand motion and the ropes coil around them, the rocks settling firmly into place as he releases them, then the tent itself. There is a moment of trepidation as the green dissipates, but everything remains in place and Orsino sighs, rolling his shoulders as he turns back to Samson and the horses. The man has both tied to a nearby tree, tack removed and their packs in a pile nearby. Orsino walks toward him, bending to rummage in the smaller pack until he finds what he’s looking for. 

Samson pauses when he straightens, eyes fixed on the object in Orsino’s hand. “What’s that for then?”

Orsino holds up the object – a piece of grey granite, flat and unremarkable but for it’s smooth finish and rounded edges. “An anchor for a heat array. It will warm our tent before we turn in for the night.” He demonstrates by pressing his finger against the middle with a spark of mana and turns the rock so Samson can see the runes flaring to life in his hand. “It’s unwise to apply the array directly to cloth unless one wants to wake up with their tent burning down around them.”

“Huh,” Samson says, peering curiously at the runes.  Orsino watches the expression on his face as he stares at the forming runes, then raises his eyebrows as Samson meets his gaze.  “Where’d you learn to do that?  Do… I mean, did you teach yourself?”  He swallows, rubs his neck and mutters, “Sorry.  Just wonderin’.”

Orsino blinks, then a smile spreads across his face. “Ah, no. Curiosity about magic? I’m the last person to deny you that. As for the array... Well, it’s a modification of the elemental mines battlemages lay down in combat, combined with a few Dalish techniques. Apparently, the Dalish have something similar, but not nearly as effective for heating a space or conserving mana. It was a joint effort pioneered by a few of the Dalish mages and Tranquil at Redthorne.” He shrugs. “Winters can be quite cold when living in cabins built by people with no real knowledge of carpentry or insulation. We used our other skills to get by.”

Samson nods thoughtfully, puts out a hand, leaving it to hover over the stone.  “Uh, can I touch it?” he asks. “Or..?”

In answer, Orsino hands it over. “It’s safe to handle, not to worry. It functions by heating the air around it, not the runes themselves. And unless the mage is setting a trap, it will never rise above a certain temperature.” He watches Samson peer at the stone, turning it over in his hands to survey the blank back, then the array again. “Granted, if you overload it with mana it does have the potential to explode.”

“Not likely, then,” Samson grins briefly, then turns his attention back to the stone in his hands.  He studies it for a long time, then points at one of the sections of the rune. “I think I recognise this bit.  In one of those trap things?  Is that right?”

Orsino tilts his head, pleasure bubbling in his chest in response to Samson’s unabashed curiosity, his lack of fear. “Well spotted. That section is for fire – heat output, as well as a connection to the trigger inlaid in the center. I believe part of it,” he points along the outer rim, “had to be changed, as actual flame isn’t the desired outcome. Not that most people care to look that closely.” Orsino’s hand moves down, settling into a light grip around Samson’s wrist, though his hand is incapable of completely encircling it. “It’s the product of several months’ work, and many minds came together to form it. Redthorne is supposedly still working on a way to etch it with lyrium without overloading it, as there have been some...demands for constantly-hot dishware from Orlais, and not everyone has a mage on hand to activate it.” He smirks, rubbing a thumb along the seam where Samson’s glove meets his wrist. “Of course, Nevarra has been receiving heat-enchanted dishes for the better part of a year, now.”

* * *

Samson snorts, grinning.  “Nothin’ like a grudge,” he murmurs, heart racing a little at Orsino’s touch.  He blinks, still gazing at the pretty rune, the way it glows brightly in his hand, only as warm as sun-warmed flesh.  “Clever,” he says, then shakes his head.  “Kinda nice to see you lot bein’ able to do something that benefits yourselves.”  He holds the rune out toward Orsino, who takes it.  Samson glances over to the horses, feeling suddenly sad as he remembers Maddox.   _ Funny really _ , he considers,  _ funny that I might never have felt so… bound to him, if he’d never been made Tranquil. _  He sniffs, rubs his chin, then looks back at Orsino and grins ruefully.  “Just thinkin’,” he says in response to Orsino’s curious look, “don’t worry about it.”  Samson takes a deep breath, sighs it out again, then asks, “Hey – can you swim?  Do you wanna?”  He steps away from Orsino, unbuckles his cloak and lets it drop from his shoulders, smiling cheekily at Orsino’s expression.  “‘Cause that’s what I’m gonna do.  It’s gonna get too hot to be stuck under canvas.”

Without another word, he turns, unbuckling the boiled leather chestplate and casting it aside.  Next comes the plain cotton undershirt, up and over his head and thrown into the grass.  He smirks, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder, to see what Orsino’s face looks like.  Swordbelt comes next – this is laid gently in the grass, and Samson crouches next to it, unbuckling his dented greaves and unlacing his boots.  Socks next, and Maker it feels good to have the cool of the grass, still a little wet, under his feet.  Samson smiles, breathes deep of the fresh smell of the grass and the trees and the running water, closes his eyes for a moment to enjoy the blaze of the sun upon his skin.  He steps forward, unbuckling his belt and unlacing his trousers while he does, wriggling them off his hips and letting them fall, stepping out of them a little awkwardly.  Finally naked, he approaches the water; stands on the shore of the little pool, looking for a moment into its clear depths.  The waterfall crashes, he feels the light touch of moisture on his skin, and stretches his arms over his head – he feels the pop and crackle of tendons, the mere act of it sending a delicious shudder of pleasure through his body.  Samson smirks, wondering if Orsino is watching – hoping he is – and then strides quickly into the water.

* * *

He feels frozen for a long moment, watching Samson as he strips perfunctorily. Of course he doesn’t want to go into the water – he’s been cold all day, and a dip in a mountain stream is unlikely to do anything but exacerbate the situation. Nevertheless, his gaze fixes on the man as he steps into the pool – on the flex of Samson’s bare back and the curve of his buttocks in the open air. Words stutter and die in his throat and Orsino can feel heat building in his face again as he watches his lover plunge into the pool, submerging entirely before he comes up sputtering and shaking his hair out of his face.

Orsino laughs as the man tries to smirk at him, but he can already see Samson’s jaw clenching against the cold. “I think I’m quite satisfied with  _ not  _ dunking myself in icy water, thank you,” he says, but pulls the hood of his cloak back in deference to the sun shining between the twin expanses of cliff and tree canopy.

Samson snorts and grins back at him, starts scrubbing at his hair even as Orsino casts for a boulder to settle on, not quite ready to attend to other tasks that need doing in favor of watching Samson bend to dunk his head in the water again. The sight is arresting, and Orsino finds himself categorizing all the changes of the last few months – the muscle that’s started to build on Samson’s frame again, how his surgery scars grow fainter as the weeks pass. His hair is longer, too, and Orsino reaches up to finger the end to his own short ponytail, still not trimmed away. He’s noticed Samson paying a bit more attention to it than usual, these last few days; running fingers through it more often than not, especially when Orsino was “resting”, trying to read yet another book but more often staring at the ceiling while curled into Samson’s side. 

“Hey,” he hears called softly from the pool, and registers Samson grinning at him. “You wanna come in?  Or you just gonna watch?” The grin turns into a smirk as Samson raises an eyebrow, the look in his eye turning wicked. “I’ll put on a show for you, if you are.”

Orsino likes to think that someday he will build up an immunity to Samson’s innuendo and flirtatious taunts, but he’s lying to himself if he truly believes he will ever stop blushing in response to Samson’s words – not because they aren’t sentiments he hasn’t heard before, many times, but because he knows that if given the opportunity, Raleigh Samson will follow through with every word. With this thought, Orsino does his best to feign an air of nonchalant interest, leaning back and crossing his ankles casually as he looks at Samson standing waist-deep in the pool. “I’m quite comfortable where I am.” He deliberately runs his gaze down Samson’s bare chest, past the waterline where details remain crystal clear but for the distortion of ripples. “What sort of performance do you have in mind?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

* * *

“Dunno,” Samson grins. “Think you’re mistakin’ me for someone who thinks ahead when they’re talkin’.”  Orsino laughs at that, bright and beautiful, and it makes Samson’s guts twist with pleasure to hear it.  He feels the chill of the water, the way the current from the waterfall moves the contents of the pool around his body, the swirling lake weed and tendrils of the blood lotus tickling at his calves and thighs.  Quickly, he plunges underwater again, taking a deliberate mouthful, then turning so that he is on his back, laying flat in the water, resting spreadeagled upon its surface.  He takes a long breath through his nose, then forces the water in his mouth out through pursed lips, sending a jet of it high into the air.  Unable to hear Orsino’s reaction as his ears are underwater, he closes his eyes, spurting another, shorter jet out of his mouth.  Orsino’s face rises in his imagination, and he smiles.  The last of the water is propelled out of his mouth, and he turns back over, onto his stomach, hands reaching instinctively in front of him and out, moving him through the water, closer to the shore.  “That enough of a show?” he calls, and Orsino laughs again.

“It wasn’t quite what I was expecting, but it was certainly… novel,” he smiles, raising his voice to be heard over the waterfall, and Samson chuckles, pulling his feet under himself to stand.  As he rises, he uses both hands to push his hair away from his face – he can feel the sodden mass of it sending rivulets of water down his back, feel the way the cool mountain air touches his skin, sending it into goosebumps.  Still watching Orsino, he smirks at the way the elf’s gaze devours his body – he is gratified to see the same hunger, the same wonder in it that he himself feels.  And Maker, but it’s good to see that smile, hear that laugh – he realises suddenly that it’s all he’s ever wanted.  Quietly, Samson exhales, forces a smile around the immeasurable hugeness of the feeling in his chest; he begins wading out of the water toward Orsino, who continues to look at him, a smile in the corner of his mouth.   

The sun is warm on his back, Orsino’s eyes heavy upon him.  There is something in that look that makes Samson’s heart leap, sends a delicious coil of desire through him, deep into the space between his hips.  He bites his tongue, trying to quell the sudden thought of  _ Wonder what he’d do if I lay out here in the sun and started fingering myself?  That’s a show, ain’t it? _  Samson chuckles a little, reminds himself sternly that Orsino is supposed to be resting, and sits down next to the rock on which Orsino sits.  Then, he lays back in the long grass, puts his hands behind his head and says softly, “This is nice.”

* * *

Orsino looks at the man lying naked on the chilly grass without a care, his clothes scattered along the shore. He has to suppress another laugh because sometimes, in these moments when it’s just him and Orsino with no one else to bear witness, Raleigh Samson can be a truly ridiculous person. Nevertheless, Orsino finds himself sliding down the boulder, wedging himself between the rock and Samson’s solid weight. He takes off a glove and is unsurprised to find chilly skin when he presses his hand to Samson’s chest. 

“You’re freezing,” he tsks. “Put some clothes on before you catch a cold,” he continues, managing to keep the reluctance he feels over Samson covering back up out of his voice. 

“Aw c’mon, old man, don’t worry so much. I’ll be fine.”

He looks him over – Samson’s nipples are still pebbled, a swath of goosebumps raising the hair on his arms, his flaccid cock smaller than usual. If he’s completely comfortable, Orsino will eat his gloves. Orsino snorts. “Very well, but if you fall ill I won’t be taking care of you. These are supposed to be  _ my _ rest days, after all,” he chides, settling back with the cloak still tucked tight around him. 

“Oh yeah?  Well,” Samson opens one eye and grins. “Maybe I know a couple of ways you could warm me up a bit.”

Orsino chuckles. “I can think of a few as well.” He pulls the anchor stone out of his pocket, activates it, and drops it on Samson’s stomach. The man makes an exaggerated sound of pain, clutching the spot dramatically.  

“No fair,” he yells, grabbing the stone with both hands and rising into a sitting position.  “Droppin’ bloody rocks on people!”  He laughs, puts the anchor stone carefully next to the larger rock, and shakes his head, looking at Orsino mock-sternly. “Hope you know what that means.”

Orsino arches an eyebrow challengingly, opens his mouth to reply when Samson lunges forward, grabbing him around the waist and hoisting him over his shoulder in one smooth motion.  The man rises, barely struggling, laughing uproariously as Orsino yelps, hands clawing at the still-wet skin of Samson’s back.  “What- let me go!” he laughs. 

Samson replies gleefully, striding forward. “Oh, I’ll let you go alright.  Right in the drink.”

“Samson, no,  _ no, _ not in the water,” Orsino pleads, and although he is laughing still, the edge in his voice must trigger something in Samson, because the man stops abruptly, pulls his body gently down, maneuvering him so that Orsino straddles his hips, arms clutched around his shoulders.  Their faces are close, and Orsino looks down at Samson to see him gazing sadly up at him.  “I’d never, ‘Sino,” he murmurs, and reaches up, stroking one hand along Orsino’s back.  “I’d never do anything that you didn’t want me to do.”

* * *

The look on Orsino’s face is gentle, kind – just looking at him is enough to make Samson feel a little better.  “I love you,” he states firmly, and takes a deep breath.  The closeness and warmth of Orsino’s body has kindled some fierce protective instinct in him, and he makes to put Orsino down.  But he clings tighter, arms and legs encircling Samson, who laughs a little and murmurs, “Alright,” before turning away from the bright pool and heading toward the cover of the tent.  

Once inside, he lays Orsino gently down on the rough canvas floor, the softness of the crushed grass underneath padding where he kneels.  The sunlight filtering through the taupe of the canvas makes the interior seem to glow in a manner which emulates dusk.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs softly, and bends toward the elf, stroking his hair out of his face, marvelling at how lovely he looks, at the strength of the feeling which he has for him.  Samson moves so that he lies alongside Orsino, grinning when he immediately turns into him, running his hands over his sides, his arms and back, moving down to the curve of his arse and hip, then back up again.  Samson sighs in satisfaction, tucks one arm under his head to support it, and murmurs, “I could look at you all day.”

* * *

Samson lies beside him, looking down, his hair still dripping onto the canvas with soft  _ plops _ and Orsino removes his other glove and reaches to push it back from the man’s face. His cheeks are flushed with color from the cold water, eyes sparking with a mischief and affection in equal measure that fills Orsino with an abiding warmth. The water starts to drip down his fingers and Orsino can’t but smile, pulling himself close to Samson until their faces are only inches apart. The man’s skin is still chilly but starting to warm as Orsino resumes stroking up and down his lines and curves, pressing hard enough he can map every twitch of muscle as Samson’s breath stutters just a little. Orsino brushes his nose against Samson’s, pleased when he pushes forward until their brows meet and Samson’s free hand comes up to cradle the back of his neck. 

There’s something about the moment that feels frozen in time, crystalline and warm enough that Orsino is finally starting to feel the tension from the cold trek seep out of him. And Samson tugs him forward a little, pressing gentle, testing kisses against his lips and face. Wherever a kiss is pressed a spot of warmth lingers – a moment later Orsino does the same, kissing just off-center of Samson’s mouth, his jaw, over the flutter of a closed eye. Soon enough their mouths meet again, unhurried, a communion of shared air and tongue and lips.

The warmth builds, but Orsino lets it do so organically. Here, they have all the time they need. There will be no messengers knocking on the door, no duties to attend, no world-shattering emergencies to call their attention away from each other. He wants to savor this moment while they can. 

Eventually, Orsino divides his attention by pulling at the clasp on his cloak, finally warm enough without it. Samson pulls back just enough to grin at him, but makes no remark as he helps, sliding the cloak off Orsino’s shoulders before skimming a hand under the hem of his thick tunic. Orsino flinches, hissing at the touch of hands that still feel like ice against bare skin. “Dammit, Lee. You’re still freezing,” he growls, grabbing the man’s wrist to pull him away when Samson only laughs.

* * *

“Go on then.  Warm me up,” he mutters, and chuckles again.  Orsino rolls his eyes, tugging his wrist harder – Samson retaliates by shifting his weight, sitting up so that he can thrust his other hand underneath Orsino’s shirt.  He runs his frigid fingers over ribs lightly, tickling, laughing as Orsino wiggles out of his way, beginning to laugh too.  “Ah, Maker, I love you,” Samson tells him, laying his palm flat against the warm skin, his thumb restlessly stroking along the ridge of Orsino’s ribs.  Orsino releases his wrist, and immediately, Samson bends down, kissing him again – languid, soft, beautiful.  He feels as if time is caught, trapped in amber here – the golden light of the sun as it filters through the canvas, the way Orsino’s eyes shine so brightly and with such love in them.  He tastes perfect to Samson, and he sighs, breaking away to mutter softly, “‘Sino, will you…”

He stops suddenly, the words trapped in his throat, shocked at what he was about to say.   _ Dummy, _ he thinks,  _ What, you gonna ask Mother Giselle to do it?  Sweet Andraste’s Freckled Arse, man, this is no time to talk gettin’ hitched. _  So instead he grins at Orsino’s curious expression, and amends his statement to, “Will you get naked for me while I nick out and get the furs and that?  I don’t want you to get cold, but I do wanna see that gorgeous arse of yours.”  Orsino huffs and looks away, his ears slowly suffusing with the delicate pink shade that Samson loves – a shade that seems to mean that Orsino is embarrassed, but pleased.  “Pretty please?” Samson asks, and sits up, allowing Orsino to do the same if he wishes.  

The elf struggles up onto his elbows, studies Samson seriously for a moment, then says, “If it means that much to you, I suppose I can oblige,” with a smirk just as cheeky as the tone. His cheeks are still noticeably pink. 

“Alright,” Samson smiles and gets up, pushing aside the flap of the tent.  He hurries across the clearing to where they had stowed the saddlebags; checking on the horses quickly, seeing that they are grazing contentedly, he picks all of them up awkwardly, carrying them over to the tent before dropping them with a soft grunt.  After a moment of searching, he locates the bag with the sleeping arrangements in it, and tucks several pelts and blankets under his arms.  He pauses briefly, shaking his head at himself as he remembers the sudden and almost overwhelming urge to ask Orsino if he would marry him.  Then he sighs and pushes the entrance to the tent open again.

* * *

Despite Samson’s promise to be right back with the furs, it takes a long moment for Orsino to convince himself to shed his layers of warmth. It’s only when he begins unlacing his boots that the rest follows suit, and soon he sits crosslegged and nude in the sunlit shelter as the air begins biting at his skin again. Thankfully, he doesn’t have long to wait before Samson returns, shoving the flap open and dropping a small pile of cloth and pelts to the side as he scuffs his feet, trying to get the worst of the mud off.

“A little late for that, I believe,” Orsino remarks, gesturing to the smears from earlier when the man brought him in and from Orsino’s own caked boots, now safely in a corner. Samson snorts and when the man’s eyes focus on him, they’re amused and still just as soft as they were a few minutes ago. He feels warmer under that gaze – as often and freely as Samson declares his love, Orsino wonders if he should tell him that he needn’t bother; that his eyes spell it out every time he looks at Orsino, every time he says his name. 

Orsino offers a hand to Samson who grasps it, making as if to pull him to his feet, but Orsino’s slight resistance is enough bring Samson down to his level, sinking to his knees in front of him without protest. Another wordless tug draws him in until Orsino can cup the back of his head and pull him into a deep kiss. “I love you,” he murmurs against Samson’s lips, then lets go of his hand, determined to map the same sentiment with his hands and tongue until it's branded into Samson’s body. 

Samson groans in response, slipping an arm around Orsino’s waist and pulling him into the hard expanse of his stomach and chest. Orsino presses back eagerly, digging his fingers into Samson’s hips and dragging down to brace against his thighs, leaning up as the man steals Orsino’s breath with another hot, hungry kiss.

The cold is forgotten; as promised his blood is already warming, cock stirring with a jolt as Samson bites his lip and drags away with a soft, wet sound. The way he groans when Orsino slides his hands to thumb along the crease of his thighs and groin is intoxicating enough that his heart starts to speed. Orsino can’t get enough of this: rough hands gentle in their regard, a fighter’s physique gone boneless and pliant beneath his touch, Samson’s mouth wrapped around his name.

And it is Orsino’s turn to ask. He leans forward, pressing kisses to Samson’s collar bone, up the column of his neck until he can whisper into the man’s ear. “Lee, tell me what you want.”

* * *

“Everything,” he pants impatiently, “I want everything.  I want you to fuck me ‘til I forget my own name; want you to kiss me, tell me things you know, want you to hold me, touch me, Maker, I want  _ you _ , Orsino, I want you.  In my mouth, against me, everywhere, anywhere.”  Samson moans softly, his eyes closed, mapping every inch of Orsino’s body with his hands.  He feels the tension under them as Orsino shifts slightly, strong fingers gripping into the flesh of his back as he presses himself against the elf’s body, even as Orsino does the same, his teeth sharp against the skin of Samson’s neck.  “Maker, ah,  _ fuck _ , ‘Sino, please, I wanna… touch, touch you, want your cock in my mouth, please.”

Orsino makes a short, high-pitched noise, and nods quickly.  Samson tucks his arms about the elf’s slender frame, pushes him gently yet firmly down, into the luxuriant pile of fur, yielding and soft under their bodies.  He grins lopsidedly, sitting back slightly to gaze at Orsino, splayed decadently there, and murmurs, “Holy Maker, you’re beautiful.”

Gently, Samson reaches out – he trails his fingers over Orsino’s body.  Down, down, over the centre of his chest, feeling the heartbeat thrumming under his skin.  Down further, along the arch of his ribs, between the of them and the softness of his stomach, the sensitive skin shivering under his ministrations.  Down further still, over the side of Orsino’s torso, watching as Orsino shifts when Samson’s fingers elicit a tickly sensation.  “Lee,” Orsino says in warning.

Samson laughs a little, then murmurs, “Yeah, yeah.  No tickling.  I get it.”

He sighs, resting the flat of his palm against Orsino’s side now, still for a moment, then moving on, down his body again – over hips, noting the way that Orsino’s eyes fall closed even as he grazes his fingers along the length of his cock, fully hard now, arched and eager, dark with blood.  He draws a line from just under the tip of the head to the base, pleased at the way the man arches under his touch.  “Don’t tease,” Orsino says, and Samson laughs.

“Don’tcha know me at all?” he asks, but his voice is raspy, low, and he smiles when Orsino snorts sarcastically.  In response, he bends forward, kissing a long line from Orsino’s breastbone, down his stomach slowly.  When he reaches the head of Orsino’s cock, he presses his tongue deftly against the slit, tasting the precome there – copper and salt, and Orsino, just him, his taste, Maker, it’s good.  He moves his hand from one side of Orsino’s hips, wraps his fingers around the shaft and pulls it up.  The elf shivers, and without further hesitation, Samson takes the head of Orsino’s cock into his mouth.  

* * *

The sensation of Samson sucking his cock is quickly becoming familiar, but no less devastating for all that. “Lee,” he moans, back arching immediately as Orsino fights not to thrust. He keeps a careful grip on the furs below him, determined to let Samson move things as he will. In the days before their departure Samson had been adamant on keeping physical strain to a minimum, which Orsino took as a challenge to move as little as possible while still satisfying the need between them. It is a demanding goal, one that frays at the edge of Orsino’s patience, but he’s determined to hold out as long as he is able. 

In spite of the leash that good sense still holds on him, Samson wills Orsino to put a hand in his hair and pull.  He feels his breath become ragged even at the thought of it, his eyes closed softly, concentrating on every sensation – the muted wind as it travels through the gaps in the canvas, and caresses along his quickly-drying flesh, the faint gasps that Orsino makes as Samson’s mouth moves upon him.  He takes the other man deeper, pressing his nose harder into the flesh of Orsino’s stomach, the soft down of hair below his navel, barely there at all.  He smoothes both hands up the sides of the man’s hips, the silken feeling of his skin so lovely under his rough palms.   _ ‘Sino _ , he thinks, shifting one hand to encircle the root of his cock,  _ ‘Sino, Maker, you’re so good.   _ Orsino gasps again, Samson feels his thighs tighten, and then Orsino lifts his legs, opening them wider, shifting them until his calves come to rest against Samson’s back, wrapped around his upper arms.  “Lee,” he whines. “Oh,  _ Lee,  _ it’s…”

Samson shifts his grip, beginning to bob his head up and down the shaft of Orsino’s cock, adjusting the rhythm, sucking a little harder.  He wants Orsino to be as desperate for him as he is for Orsino; no, he  _ needs _ it.  He could never cease to be fascinated by the sounds Orsino makes as he rides the wave of his pleasure – like a man who has only just discovered the sheer joy of giving voice to those moments, which, Samson supposes, isn’t too far from the truth.  He pulls back so that only the head of Orsino’s cock is in his mouth, flicks his tongue against the tip until Orsino groans, then slowly swallows him back down, relaxing his throat as much as he can to get as much of Orsino inside him.  He holds there, still for a moment, and Orsino’s cock twitches against his soft palate.  “Please,” Orsino rasps, and then a hand comes up to stroke Samson’s hair.  “Please…”

* * *

He knows, knows in his bones that Samson is trying to get a rise out of him, wants Orsino’s self-control to break. He fights it as best he can, trying not to get completely lost in the pleasure of the moment, in Samson’s hot mouth as Orsino watches himself sink all the way into him and Samson’s lips reach the base of his cock. The fire in him is building again, rising to the surface where his skin meets Samson’s, and his resolve crumbles when Samson stops – banking the fire back. 

His hand moves of its own accord, running over his lover’s hair and then burying into it when Samson groans in response. Orsino bites his lip, stifling any more words as Samson begins sucking again, swallowing around his cock as Orsino fights not to jackknife up. He curls a fist into Samson’s hair, torn by the sudden onslaught of sensation – his breath stutters when his hand is covered by Samson’s own and the man presses his own head down with it; an invitation. 

“F-fuck, Lee,” he stutters, a gravel to his voice as the realization hits him and Orsino has to take a breath to ensure he doesn’t start to black out. He tightens his grip in Samson’s hair, shivers when he moans his approval, and pulls up. Samson’s lips slide out to the end of his cock, just barely covering the head, and the man looks at him with eyes full of hunger. Then his eyes flutter shut, Samson’s hand sliding off his to squeeze Orsino’s hip and Orsino takes for the signal it is. He starts slow, pressing down, lets his hips rise just a little with every thrust until it’s apparent that Samson can take it, that the man is impatient and already trying to push further. 

Orsino can’t help himself – he lets go, yanking Samson down against him as he jerks upwards, fucking the man’s mouth in a rhythm interrupted only occasionally to let Samson catch his breath. He can’t think, can only focus on the heat and suction and how Samson groans around him, that rumble in his chest buzzing around Orsino’s cock until the sensation is nearly too much. His muscles tighten, too aware of Samson’s hands on his hips as the man practically pulls him in, each point of contact a burning brand. Orsino thrusts again and again – climax coiling tighter and he can barely breathe for the weight of it.

“Lee,” he tries, but the name comes out as more of a croak. He shudders as Samson sucks, runs a tongue along the underside of his cock when Orsino draws him back. “Lee, fuck! I’m there, Lee. Please-”

* * *

He sucks harder, and on that word, the lovely, broken sound of it, Orsino floods Samson’s mouth.  All Samson feels is bright elation at the strength of Orsino’s fingers in his hair, the way he seems so unaware of the grip that he has, how he pulls on it, how much it hurts, how glorious it feels.  He tastes so good, Samson swallows around him and Orsino shivers, shifts a little and sighs.  Samson smooths his hands around Orsino’s hips again, reluctant to take his mouth away, though Orsino is already softening.  After a few more gentle sucks, Samson sighs through his nose and pulls away, moving one hand so that he can grip Orsino’s cock, softly resting it on his stomach, kissing it again and again until Orsino laughs softly.  He feels so languid, so warm and lovely and he never wants this moment to end.  The bitter taste lingers in the back of his throat when he swallows, and he shifts up, moving so that he might lay alongside Orsino and wrap his arms around him.  “Love you,” he whispers into the elf’s hair. “Love you, you’re perfect, I love you.”

* * *

Orsino smiles into Samson’s neck, opens his mouth to respond in-kind, when he’s cut off by the sound of a long, low growl not too far away from their tent. 

He sucks in a breath, stiffening as Samson also freezes, a whispered  _ “Shit” _ stirring the air between them as the growling continues, interrupted only by a rustle in the bushes. All thoughts of sex forgotten, Orsino rises with Samson not a moment behind, scrambling as quickly and quietly as they can to get a look at whatever lurks outside their shelter. 

There is a bear in their camp. It hasn’t noticed them yet, interested in the horses who stamp and snort nervously but are not yet panicking. It wanders toward them, sniffing at the saddles, and Orsino tosses a half-panicked look at Samson, who meets it with wide eyes. Orsino’s staff is still tied to one of the saddles, leaving both of them unarmed, vulnerable to the extremely aggressive breed of bear found in Fereldan. He longs, acutely, for the smaller and more docile black bears common in the Marches. Those, at least, could be warded off with a few loud noises and some showy magic. Orsino knows from experience that the bear before them is much more likely to attack than flee. How he wants to kick himself – Orsino should have insisted on setting up the wards around camp before anything else, but now they must deal with the result of his negligence. 

‘Get your sword,’ he mouths at the man, and Samson’s eyes dart down the shore where his sword lies. He looks back at Orsino, expression set, and nods. 

And of course, that’s the moment the bear turns and spots them.


	17. Chapter 17

“Shit,” he breathes, holding out one hand toward the bear.  These bastards are fast, he knows from experience, fast and brutal, but maybe Orsino will be able to get away if he can hold it up for long enough.  “Nice bear,” Samson tells it firmly, sidestepping cautiously over to where he’d left his sword in the long grass near the rock. “Good bear.  We got nothin’ here for you, big boy, so why don’t you fuck off?”  The bear growls, shakes its heavy head, and takes two steps toward him, it’s eyes on Samson.  From the corner of his eye, Samson watches Orsino – he is stock still, perhaps waiting until Samson can draw the bear further from the horses.   _ Better bloody be goin’ for the horse and not his staff, _ Samson thinks – but it is too late for that now.  He keeps walking, keeping the bear in view, his position tense, half-crouched, ready to run for his sword at any second.  The bear opens its mouth wide, showing all its teeth, and then shakes it’s head again, huffing loudly.  “Yeah, alright,” Samson tells it loudly. “Just fuck off, you.  G’won, get!”  He is two steps away from his sword now, already bending toward it, hand outstretched, palm sketching the tops of the long stems of grass when the bear rushes forward.

 

Samson dives for his sword, catching it by the hilt, bringing it up and around in a wide arc.  The flat of the blade connects hard with the side of the charging bear’s head, and it bellows, changing its course quickly, unbelievably quickly for such a huge animal.  “No!” Samson yells, “Fight me, you dumb bastard!  I’m over here!”  The bear bellows again, the horses screaming in panic now, Orsino is yelling something but Samson cannot hear him over the thrum of blood in his temples, the sheer exhilaration of it all.  He stands his ground, feet planted, not aware at all now of his nakedness, as he watches the bear coming toward him.  Samson repositions the grip on his sword slightly, the world seeming to slow as the bear rushes forward – he watches the shift of its back legs, the power in them as it leaps up, claws extended, jaw open – feels the shift of his own muscles as he drops to one knee and drives the sword up and into the bear as hard as he can.  

 

His sword is torn out of his hands, and he feels claws on his face, the stink of old meat and wet fur overwhelming.  Samson hears his name from somewhere far off – feels the soft, damp grass at his back and shakes his head, puts a hand up to his face, feels the warm wetness there.  “No you don’t, you stupid fuck,” he says, and turns over, struggling to his feet.  He casts about wildly, barely seeing the scenery.  He’s dizzy, his heart pounds, then he spots the bear panting not ten paces away with his sword protruding from its chest.  

 

It looks terrible and sounds worse, whining and growling by turns, and for a moment, Samson feels sorry for it.  But he knows that this is when these animals are at their worst, when they have nothing left to lose.  He clenches his fists, steeling himself for the final attack, praying that Orsino has had the good sense to ride as hard as he can back toward Skyhold, when he hears his name again.

* * *

Orsino calls for Samson again, heart in his throat. He can’t get to his staff – the horses are too panicked, stomping wildly enough he risks taking a hoof to the head if he tries to get near them. So instead it is him, behind and to the side of the bear, and Samson squaring off against the thing, unarmed, with blood pouring down his face. Orsino can’t take the time to think – he casts a barrier, enough to catch the next blow when the bear roars and lunges before the magic slides away, failing to latch on to the cleansed Templar. The rebound of a failed spell takes both bear and man off-guard, but that moment is enough.

Orsino bites down at the scar on his wrist – tears – and the air doesn’t fill with blood because a small spear of it is already streaking toward the beast. Precious seconds are lost as it burrows through the hole where the sword pierces its chest.

He’s never used blood magic in battle before, never wished to use the forbidden school for something so violent when he favors fire and grand shows of light. But fire will not be quick enough, not for this. “Raleigh,  _ move _ !” he bellows as the bear attacks again. He almost has it – a few more vessels, blood, muscle,  _ brain _ \- 

Samson cries out, stumbling when it manages another swipe across his chest even as he dodges, and then- Orsino doesn’t think, doesn’t care for finesse at the sight of Samson going to his knees. He reaches out and  _ yanks _ . 

The bear doesn’t have a brain left to react anymore as blood bursts out its eyes and mouth in a great wave, spilling over grass. The hulking beast drops like a stone. 

“Lee!” Orsino cries, sprinting to the man’s side. The sight of blood trickling over Samson’s pale skin is enough to make him nauseous. He can monitor his pulse with every renewed gush of blood over his brow and Orsino presses his hands over the wound without thinking, trying to hold back the flood. “Maker, fuck. Please, let me help. Let me heal you.”

* * *

_ Let me help you _ .  He hears the voice, knows the words, but there is only the afterimage of that huge paw coming out, claws extended – the bright black eyes of the bear, reflecting his own terror back at him.  Samson blinks up at the man above him, tries to say  _ yes _ , but only manages a gasp and a strange gurgling noise.  His chest feels – too full, too tight, he wheezes and coughs, sending blood spattering over his face and the face of the man above him. The man makes a faint groan, places a soft hand on his cheek, his eyes worried, then looks down at his chest.

 

Samson smiles at the faint tingling sensation, then hitches a breath as a huge ache blossoms in his chest.  “Orsino,” he tries to say, wondering where the word has come from; then recollection overpowers him, and he whimpers.  “‘Sino,” he says again, and Orsino glances at him, brow furrowed in concentration.  

“Please,” he says again, his voice strained, “Please, just let me help you.  Lee, I...”

* * *

From somewhere which seems very far away, Samson is suddenly afraid.  A series of seemingly disconnected visions occur to him – a spear of blood, a wound which did not heal, a woman being dragged through a doorway by two armed men, red stone all around her.  He takes a deep breath, looks into Orsino’s eyes and nods, feels the fear abate.  “Uh huh,” Samson murmurs, and Orsino releases a long breath, directing his gaze to Samson’s chest.  His hands come out slowly, his eyes fall closed and as if in the blink of an eye, Samson sees –  _ Maker! _ – a red fog surrounding them, still and weirdly beautiful.  He breathes deep, trying to still the flutter of panic in his gut as he watches Orsino work.  Slowly the layers of the ache subside, transforming into a distracting itch.  He shifts uncomfortably, the pain in his face massive now that his chest is being seen to.   Clenching his fists at his sides in an effort not to raise them to touch it, he asks softly, “Get it, did ya?”

 

Orsino grunts in the affirmative, and Samson smiles.  “Poor bastard,” he mutters. “Prolly just wanted some water or something.  Shoulda been more careful… when… when we…”

“Shhh,” Orsino chides him, still concentrating, hands moving up now, up Samson’s body to his face. “Don’t strain yourself.”

“Don’t… strain… myself… he says,” Samson laughs quietly, then sighs.  “S’posed to be your rest.”

“Yes,  _ well _ ,” Orsino murmurs, shaking his head, a few minutes more silence surrounding them.  Finally, Orsino smiles as he sits back, opens his eyes to look at Samson. “I never seem to get much of that with you around, have you noticed?”

He laughs again, eyes blinking heavily, feeling better already, the heavy, full sensation in his chest alleviating.  “Give over, old man.  You love my adventuresome ways.”

 

“I see you’re back to your cheeky self,” Orsino smiles, arching an eyebrow, “I will see to the horses, while you get yourself under cover.”

“Get out of it,” Samson tells him, this time with more purpose. “You’re out here, workin’ miracles, killin’ bears, doing all this awesome shit while I’m stuck inside like a wilting primrose?  Not likely.”  He pushes himself up on his elbows, ignoring the slightly dizzy feeling in his head.  “ _ I’ll _ do the horses, you do the fire.  How’s that for teamwork?”

* * *

Orsino sighs in exasperation. “ _ Or _ ,” he counters, feeling tired, “you clean all the blood off you so you don’t terrify the poor things any further before you see to them, while I lay down the perimeter wards I should’ve set an hour ago.” He may have sealed the wounds, coaxed torn muscle to knit back together, but Samson still looks gruesome covered in blood and Orsino is certain the man could use a healing potion to help anything he missed. 

His wrist twinges, and Orsino grimaces at the raw wound he sees when he looks down – the lack of sharp implements on hand was limiting, and Orsino is unsure if he wants to get in the practice of pulling blood through old wounds without aid. Still, the bite mark hurts, so he covers it with the other hand to seal the wound and dry the blood that coats his wrist. 

He looks up to see Samson watching him, eyes tired but focused. He smiles back, weariness setting into his bones after yet another flagrant use of blood and magic. He sighs again as Samson stands, takes the hand offered to him, Samson pulling him up and close. 

And Orsino starts to shiver, the cold making itself known once more. 

“Go get dressed, then set your wards, old man,” Samson murmurs, chafing a hand down Orsino’s arm to generate some heat. He can’t find it in himself to argue, simply nods and pulls away slowly, trudging back to the tent to don his clothing once more. 

* * *

Laying the wards is a simple task, though time-consuming. In an effort to preserve mana, Orsino utilizes mostly fire mines that will explode if trod on by anything heavier than a fox, with a few paralysis runes interspersed throughout. By the time he finishes and returns, leaning heavily on his staff and with a small bundle of wood tucked under one arm, he finds Samson redressed and crouching down to pile kindling together within a circle of river stones. 

Orsino drops the wood he collected next to the man, taking note of the sword by Samson’s side, back in its sheath and presumably cleaned of blood. He shakes his head, crouching next to him and unleashing a small burst of fire when Samson takes his hands away from the wood. 

“Doin’ alright, ‘Sino?” the other asks, clasping at Orsino’s elbow when he lets himself sit fully on the ground. 

“I am just tired, as to be expected after...all of that,” he sighs, gesturing at the bear corpse lying on the shore. “But we need to do something with the body. Leaving it there will only attract more predators.” Orsino hesitates. “I don’t suppose we can just butcher it?”

Samson snorts, poking at the fire with the hand not still resting under his elbow. “You ever eat bear meat? It’s tough as shit and tastes worse.”

“Still, it would save us the trouble of hunting over the next few days.” It would feel strange, to propose eating something Orsino just killed with blood magic, but Redthorne had long-since inured most of his people to the idea of hunting with magic. Granted, most hunters used lightning or ice, but Orsino could see some advantages if blood magic was used to speed the process of bleeding and cleaning the kill. 

“Don’t have a spell to skin a bear, do you?”

Orsino shakes his head. “Not to skin it with the pelt intact; I was never part of the hunting parties. My role is solely bureaucracy and the occasional defensive measures.” He pauses, wracking his brain. “I can flay the skin away, however. It will be quick, but the pelt will be useless afterward.” Orsino laughs lowly, lets himself lean into Samson as the man obligingly moves closer. “Listen to me, talking about the technicalities of butchering bears when you very nearly died today.” He looks up, taking in the angry red lines of scabs over the top of Samson’s face. He reaches to trace a clawmark that came far too close to relieving the man of an eye. “I could’ve lost you today.”

  
  


“Yeah well,” Samson grins, “You didn’t.  I’m pretty hard to lose, you know.”  He snorts. “Like Orlesian pox or something.”

“ _ Lee _ ,” Orsino chastises him, rolling his eyes and clicking with his tongue in disapproval, and Samson laughs.  

“Alright, alright,” he says, pulling Orsino closer to him, smiling as the elf resists slightly. “Whaddya want me to say?  I had you backin’ me up, and you’re tougher’n anyone else I ever met.  The way that poor old bear’s eyes kinda just… exploded out of his face…”  Samson shudders theatrically, and bites his lip as Orsino frowns.  “It was an impressive bit of combat magic, old man.  And I seen a fair bit of that in my time.  Not bad for an  _ academic _ .”  He reaches over, kissing Orsino’s shoulder lightly, before turning and looking at the corpse of the bear.  “Alright, bear,” he addresses it, “what’re we gonna do with you?”

 

It’s too big to move, that is clear.  Even if they had the wherewithal to shift it, where would they put it?  Samson rubs a hand over his stubble and frowns.  “If you could take the skin off, we may not even be able to use it for meat,” he tells Orsino.  “There’s too much, for one thing, but maybe…”  Samson cocks his head.  “I can skin it in part, get some of the meat off it, see if it’s any good.  You think you can either freeze it solid enough to leave here for some carrion eater after we’re gone, or burn it now?  I don’t love that idea,” he mutters, thinking of the likelihood of a forest fire, then shrugs.  “But that’s all I got.  How ‘bout you?”

* * *

They come to a swift agreement, and Orsino finishes building the fire while Samson butchers the bear. He doesn’t pay too much attention to the process – he has no desire to see more guts and viscera than he must – and Orsino instead busies himself with the minutiae of setting up a full-functioning camp. The anchor stone is retrieved and deposited in the tent to warm, where he lays out the bedding neatly and drags their packs into the sheltered space. By the time he finishes fetching water from the pool in a small pot and setting it to boil, Samson returns with several slabs of meat laid in a scrap of cloth. 

“That’ll be enough, right?” he asks, and Orsino doesn't even need to look up to know that Samson is exhausted.  He hasn't heard that crack in his voice since his recovery from the red lyrium.  Samson sighs, crouching next to Orsino, and mutters, “Couldn't get much.  The poor bastard was rangey as fuck, blunted my knife.”  He lays the meat carefully down, still on the cloth, and runs his hands over his face.

Orsino snorts, an answering weariness resonating in his bones. “It’s fine for now. We’ll cook it all and any leftovers can be eaten later.” A sigh, and he uses his own knife to cube some of the meat and drop it into the pot, followed by a turnip and a bundle of herbs. Neither of them speak again for a long time – the sun dips over the horizon, the sky fading to darkness quickly enough that soon their only source of light is the fire. The soup is nothing special. Orsino only remembers to add salt after he grimaces around the first bland bite, though Samson has already demolished half the bowl before he can offer the salt pouch. 

By unspoken agreement, they pack away their utensils when Orsino starts to shiver, Samson checking on the horses one more time while he rinses the pot and banks the fire. Only an afterthought reminds Orsino to freeze the bear, conjuring a Winter’s Grasp strong enough to keep the carcass frozen solid for the next several hours, at least. 

His runes and mines still humming comfortingly on the edge of his senses, Orsino makes his way to the tent, Samson right behind. It’s strange, how exhausted he feels. Even months of cleansing Red Templars never drained him this badly, and Orsino can only wonder if he truly has pushed himself too far this time. 

It seems Samson is just as spent, however. As soon as they lie down the man is curling around him in a tight embrace, mumbling something incoherent into Orsino’s hair. Orsino hugs him back, the tension from the day beginning to ebb away as he finally starts to feel safe and warm again.

“Good night, Lee,” he whispers, and lets himself answer the call of the Fade.

 

In the morning, he wakes to a raven perched on their tent, making a ruckus until Orsino finally relieves it of the letter it carries. 

_ [a small scroll of parchment with familiar handwriting] _

You need to come back. Something big happened and I need help.

– Merrill

 

* * *

“Lee.”

He rolls over, then comes awake quickly, rubbing his eyes.  “Yeah, ‘Sino?” Samson asks, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Y’alright?”

 

“I am fine,” Orsino assures him – but even in the dim light of the tent, Samson can see that this is not entirely true.  Aside from still looking exhausted, the man looks on edge, as if he has a confession.  From outside the canvas shelter, Samson hears a heavy flutter and a loud  _ caw! _ , then notices the small piece of parchment in Orsino’s hands. 

 

His stomach drops, and silently, he shakes his head.  “No,” he says softly. “No.”

Quickly, Orsino nods, then hands the piece of parchment to Samson.  “I don’t want you to,” Samson tells him, looking away from those clear green eyes, then back at Orsino.  He shakes his head, breathing hard already, then takes the piece of parchment with fingers which tremble.  Reading those words,  _ I need help _ , he shakes his head again.  “No.  Please.”

 

He thrusts the parchment back to Orsino, who takes it from him gently.  Samson’s belly and chest feel tight, and he bites hard on his lower lip.  “No.  ‘Sino, you’re still… we can’t… you’re…”  Samson takes a deep breath, knowing that his scowl is ugly, knowing that it’s not Orsino’s fault, but hating the letter and all it demands, all it assumes, anyway.  He sighs out the breath, struggling with his anger, and says softly, “We only just got here.  Nothin’ can be that big.”

Orsino reaches out for his hand and Samson takes it, clinging even as Orsino’s expression twists with something pained. “Merrill knows why we’re here – she’s the one who gave permission for it. You know she wouldn’t ask if the situation wasn’t dire.”

 

He does know, that’s the worst of it.  His throat clicks as he tries to swallow back the tears, as he grips Orsino’s hand tighter.   _ Please _ , he thinks, feeling like a man pushing a huge boulder up a hill, knowing that before it gets to the top, it will roll back and crush him,  _ Please.  Don’t go.  If you go, I’ll… _  But he can’t.  He’s sworn that to himself, that he’d never, ever make Orsino do something that he didn’t want to do. 

 

But Maker, it is bitter, this.  Samson stares at the piece of parchment in Orsino’s hand, feeling sick and sad and lonely.  Silently, he nods.  “Alright,” he mutters, “Alright.  But…”

He can’t go on.  So he only looks at Orsino and tries to smile.  It must look bad, because Orsino frowns, and opens his mouth slightly as if he will speak. 

* * *

Orsino pauses, mind whirling. The war of emotions on Samson’s face are plain as day, and his distress comes out so clearly Orsino finds it near painful to look at. He squeezes the man’s hand, moving closer. “I don’t want to go,” he says, looking straight into Samson’s eyes. “But I have a duty, one that I chose of my own free will, and I can’t abandon it when we’re so close to the end. And we’re close. You can feel it?”

Samson only looks at him, seeming to be at a loss for words.  Then suddenly, he blurts, “Yeah.  I can feel it.  But it feels like the end of  _ everything _ to me.  And… and, I just… I can’t…”  He swallows, wincing, then looks into his lap, pulling his hand from Orsino’s roughly to wipe at his face with both hands.  “Fuckin’ stupid,” he mumbles into them, then shakes his head.  He drops his hands to look at Orsino fiercely, then sniffs and says, “Right then.  C’mon.  Work to do.”

It’s like watching Samson pull on old armor, a defence so full of patches and holes that it hurts Orsino’s heart to see the man pack all his fear and anger behind it. Orsino closes his eyes for a moment – to allow himself a single instant in which he mirrors that fear, that gut-wrenching sadness that threatens to break him completely before Orsino breathes in, pushing it away.  _ I don’t want this _ , a part of him whimpers.  _ We’re hurting him, hurting ourselves – why can’t we just  _ leave _ , just go- _ But Orsino pushes those thoughts away too. He knows better than to entertain them for too long, knows if he ever follows through the guilt left behind would eat him alive long before anything else could think to kill him. 

He stands from where he knelt at Samson’s side, sighs silent but long.  _ Work to do _ .

“Let’s go.”

* * *

They strike the camp in virtual silence, neither seeming willing to give voice to what they are feeling.  Half way through covering their fire, Samson glances up – the scar in the sky where the Breach was, a sight so normal by now that it has ceased to hold any wonder for him, seems to pulse.  He frowns up at it, trepidation growing in the pit of his stomach.  “Sino,” he murmurs, and points, “you see that?”

He looks at the elf, who stares back at him, eyes narrowed with concern.  Then Orsino turns back to the tent, making a complicated gesture to cause the canvas to fold itself.  Samson cannot help noticing the way Orsino’s pace quickens, the set of his mouth, and he too hurries a little more in their preparations to leave.

 

Finally, the last ward is lifted, and they are mounted, all their gear stowed behind them.  The early morning sunlight is warm as it was on the day that they left Skyhold, but Samson finds no joy in the sparkle of the water as he turns for one final glance as they ride away.  Unwilling to push the horses too hard with such a long ride ahead of them and over such mountainous terrain, they ride slowly.  The woods give way to sere rocks and the blasted mountainside – melting snow making the slipping rocks more treacherous for the horses.  Twice, Samson feels his horse slip and pulls on the reins; the horse whinnies in fright but manages to recover its footing.  And all too soon they are within sight of the walls of Skyhold.  

 

Samson swallows.  They have barely spoken on the return journey – Orsino seems preoccupied, and Samson can tell that he is worried.   _ Bloody stupid _ , he thinks angrily, _ You don’t send a message like that without tellin’ ‘em what’s goin’ on _ .  But of course, this is war – how could he forget? – and nobody puts important information into a missive which could easily be intercepted.  He rubs the back of his neck, sweaty in the warmth of the sunshine, and then they hear a hideous  _ whumpf-ROAR! _ that both of them recognise instantly – that of a demon screaming into existence.

* * *

And it feels like the world is ending all over again, because above the roar of the demon not far from them, Orsino hears a high-pitched crash – that sensation of reality coming undone he’d felt only once before. Green light shoots into the sky like a malevolent geyser, and though they are miles away from Skyhold and even further from the Temple of Sacred Ashes, the rush of the explosion rattles Orsino’s bones and wrenches at his stomach so badly it’s all he can do not to throw up. 

“No!” he cries, the word escaping without thought, but it matches the anguish he feels, to see so much of their effort undone in a single moment. 

Samson’s horse whinnies in fright, and Orsino’s rears before he wrenches its head down. The other man lets loose a string of curses that would make Orsino’s ears burn in any other situation, but he can’t bring himself to care because ahead, out of the trees, a hulking purple monstrosity appears. Every heaving footstep makes the ground tremble. 

His hands tremble, too, for in this moment there is only him and Samson, alone and unarmored and miles from any help. The demon spots them immediately – no cover near enough to the road for them to take shelter – and it laughs, grating and horrible as it heads their way. Orsino fumbles, yanks his staff out of its bindings and thrusts it forward with a wordless cry. The fireball arcs, burning. Hits. Pride laughs again, shrugging off the flame as if it is little more than a few small pebbles thrown in desperation. 

 

“‘Sino!  Get back!  Fuck sakes – nothin’ you throw at it’s gonna work, not while the Breach is open!”

“Lee-” he starts, turning to Samson whose sword is shining in the suddenly-green light. Samson looks at him, eyes wide and white-rimmed with panic and something dark that sets Orsino’s gut to twisting again. Before he can say anything more, there is a crackle in the air, and Orsino barely manages to yank his horse to the side as a static bomb drops right where he stood. In the end, there is only one thing he can think to do. “Lee, let’s go! We can outrun it!” 

A roar. He nearly freezes when Samson shakes his head in disagreement, then dismounts the dun. “What are you doing? Get back on the- we need to flee!” 

Another bolt of lighting that only barely misses, this time.

“No!  Run!  ‘Sino, you need to run!”  Samson’s horse rears behind him, eyes showing their whites, mouth foaming, and to Orsino’s horror, Samson lets go of the bridle.  The horse bolts; in its blind panic, it runs straight toward the demon, who picks it up and throws it casually down the mountainside.  Orsino cannot help it – he follows the doomed animal’s trajectory with his eyes, appalled at both the display of strength and the fact that Samson now no longer has a mount.  He directs his gaze back to Samson, who is now watching the demon. 

“We can’t kill it, not on our own! Merrill needs an entire team to take one down-” Orsino can feel his throat closing, sudden terror flooding his veins as he realizes what Samson is about to do. He knows this man, knows what he is about to say.

Samson doesn’t bother looking at Orsino as he tells him, “Fuck sakes, don’t waste your breath!   _ Just run! _ ”

“ _ No _ !” The word is practically a scream, but Orsino can’t stop his horse as it shies further away from Samson, from the area the demon targeted. 

“You  _ have  _ to go! They need you, I can draw it away!”

The answer to his sudden shout is an electricity whip that Samson only dodges by inches, falling into a roll even as Orsino tries to bring his mount closer to the man, but the horse protests and fights him. 

“Maker damn it, Raleigh, I won’t leave you!” tears out of his throat, shout cracking as the Pride demon advances, but Orsino can barely bring himself to care when Samson is looking at him with a mix of anger and desperation writ across his face. 

And then the man lunges toward him – for a moment Orsino hopes he’s changed his mind, that he’s about to leap on behind Orsino and tell him to ride hard – but instead he reaches out and slaps the bay’s rump with the flat of his blade.  _ “GO!” _

Everything in Orsino rails, but this is apparently what breaks any bravery his horse may have mustered, for it’s off like a shot on the road, passing Pride too quickly for the demon to follow and no amount of yanking on the reins can convince it to slow.

Fear echoes through his bones, resonates in a terrified, primal scream. “Raleigh!” He twists around in the saddle. Samson is standing square, sword aloft with only a chestplate of boiled leather to protect him as the demon advances. Pride has chosen the easier target. “Lee!” he calls again, strangled by sudden, crushing grief. Samson doesn’t look at him, doesn’t watch him go. Doesn’t see the tears streaming down Orsino’s face.

Then the road bends and the sight of the man readying for hopeless battle is obscured by trees. The horse keeps running toward home, where it knows it will be safe.

 

“Come on then, you stupid fuck,” Samson goads the demon, who chuckles once more and blinks its multiple eyes down at him, fists curled and dancing with current.  He can hear the whisper of it in the back of his mind, and he swallows hard – he can feel it searching for a foothold, something with which it can turn him against himself.  Tightening his grip on the sword, he feels it slip in the slickness of his own sweat, and considers his options.  The best he can hope for is to give Orsino time – and the best way to do that is to fight clever.  

 

The demon approaches, already trailing a long line of pure energy behind it.  The whip looks something like a horizontal bolt of lightning, and Samson considers its length and potential trajectory as he backs up, feeling the rough scoria underfoot slip.  “Come on,” he grins up at the demon, “You boring, trivial cunt.  You think I ain’t seen a dozen just like you?  You’re nothing.”

Pride seems to bristle at that, and raises the hand with the whip – and like a flash, lashes out with it.  Samson feels all the hair on his body stand on end; at the last moment, he dives sideways, instinct alone driving him away from the white hot bite of Pride’s whip.  He stumbles a little, recovers his footing, and laughs as he looks up into Pride’s face.  The demon is not more than two of its huge paces away from him now – Samson can see every bulging vein, every fang in its gaping mouth.  “You useless fuck,” he laughs again, “Can’t even kill little old me?  Some washed up old Templar givin’ you trouble, you worthless shi..?”

 

Pride roars and stampedes toward him, lunging forward.  Samson stands his ground, sword extended, some part of him knowing that this is it, this is the end; he prays, in his last instant, that Orsino is far enough away, that he will get to Skyhold, that no harm will come to him once he is there.   _ Maker, keep him safe, _ some part of his mind asks,  _ please.  Keep him safe.  I love you ‘Sino. _  He runs forward, hardly even aware of these thoughts, dodging the grasping fingers, his teeth clenched, the gaping maw of the demon bearing down on him, curling underneath it, his sword penetrates the deep violet of its chest and the demon rears up again, pulling it out of Samson’s grip.  It’s stuck there, poking out of the muscle just underneath Pride’s collarbone, and the demon screams, swiping at it.  The blade snaps in half like a piece of straw.  Samson stares for a moment, blinking up at the sight, then turns – too quickly, his feet slide out from beneath him and he slips, falls.  He tries to recover, hands and knees burning as the gravel tears holes in the knees of his pants, he keeps his head up, desperately trying to crawl away – he scrambles up, slips again, the green light seeming to pulse around him.  His heartbeat and breath is loud in his ears, and his sight seems to double, tears almost blinding him.   _ Not yet _ , he thinks,  _ not yet, please chase me, a little more time.   _ Pride screams, the cry is echoed from somewhere in the sky, and  _ fuck _ if he can just get to cover it might not be too late, Maker, it’s too late, he feels Pride bearing down on him, the crackle of the current, the sky, Maker save him, the  _ sky _ , it seems to open, the roar of the Fade all around him and then he falls again.  This time, he cannot bring his hands up to shield his head – he manages to turn his face at the last moment, but comes down hard on his temple.  The pain is huge, all through his head, and then the green world goes grey.   _ Sino _ is his last, disconnected thought, and then Samson’s vision goes black.

* * *

The ground rumbles, rock grinding against rock as the Temple’s foundation lifts into the air, but Orsino feels numb to it all. It’s been a day and a half since his own world fell out from under his feet, and the mage cannot muster the energy to be shocked, to do more than keep his balance as Corypheus shouts something dramatic. He doesn’t pay attention. Orsino isn’t supposed to be here – if anything, he should be down on the ground or back at Skyhold, helping defend against the demons pouring out of the Breach in droves. He should be with Samson, fighting at his side.

_ He’s not dead, he can’t be _ , repeats in his mind, a mantra to ward off Despair’s whispers grown loud in his ears. 

“We shall prove here, once and for all, which of us is worthy of godhood,” the abomination says, voice echoing against stone and lyrium in a sickening rumble. 

Merrill stands straight, fists clenching around her staff. She laughs, dark and angry. “Godhood? I have to wonder if there’s any such thing as gods.” A pause, poignant as the party watches their leader glare up at the darkspawn magister. “I have nothing to prove to you, or to anyone else.”

There is a rumble, a crash as Corypheus’ dragon reveals itself – and Orsino reels when Merrill answers with a guttural roar of her own. Her skin darkens, scales over, and she grows up and out in the space of a moment. And there stands another dragon, lithe but long with scales of black and white and red, the  _ vallaslin _ still-etched on her face glowing bright green with inner fire. 

She’d told him, of the Well’s knowledge and the meeting with Mythal cum Flemeth, but Orsino hadn’t been prepared for the full scope of what those events meant for his friend. And now…

Merrill roars challenge again, lunging at Corypheus and barely missing when the darkspawn dragon tackles her off the side of the cliff. Then the battle is on. Corypheus sneers and it is clear he finds the inner circle an unworthy fight, but Orsino can tell that Merrill’s transformation has shaken him, that the magister wonders what other heretofore unknown powers they and the Inquisitor might possess. 

They chase him, up stairs and through stone arches. Orsino casts – fire and barriers and mines all in succession, ice to slow the demons and entropy to leech Corypheus’ strength. But every time someone lands a hit a bit too close, the magister disappears again with a swirl of sickly red light. Orsino’s hands begin to shake as he downs lyrium potions, falling back to cast barriers on Sera and Varric as the warriors rush in. 

And suddenly the darkspawn dragon crashes to the ground before them, one wing torn almost completely from its body. With a pained roar it rights itself just as Merrill follows, her form melting back to elven and she stumbles on her feet but does not fall. 

“Inquisitor!” someone calls, but Orsino does not care, eyes fixed on Merrill as she straightens, blood already permeating the air around her. 

“Fight!” she yells, the only assurance of her well being that anyone will receive. “ _ Vir ensalin _ !” 

Corypheus seems to have disappeared, and all Orsino can do is push himself further, throwing as much power as he is able into every spell while they wear down the dragon’s defense. Fire does little, and soon he resorts to ice, lightning, stonefists, and sapping entropy. Still, it is not enough. 

“Sera!” he hears Varric call, panic in his voice. Orsino turns, ready to cast a barrier or some small healing spell, and in doing so misses the great ball of crackling red energy as it flies toward him. 

“Orsino!” Merrill screams in warning, but it comes too late. The attack strikes him full on, shattering his own weak barrier as he flies across the space. Sharp, screaming pain shoots through him the next moment and Orsino gasps in agony, lifting a hand to his neck. The wound is as deep as it is painful, and already he feels woozy from the loss of blood. More shouting, a pained cry as the dragon takes a hit. The edges of his vision grow dark, but Orsino fights.

_ No, I can’t die just yet _ .  _ They  _ need _ me _ , he tells himself. He presses his fingers in, trying to seal the gash, but his magic doesn’t rise to the task. He grunts – blood fills his mouth and Orsino gags, coughing. Someone kneels by his side –  _ Solas? _ – but he can’t concentrate, can’t swallow when a potion is pressed to his lips and he turns away from it. 

Solas says something – coaxing? Reprimanding? He doesn’t listen. There is blood in his throat and blood in his nose and blood in the air, rising from the black puddle Orsino’s left on the ground. He rolls weakly, presses his face to the ash and muck. A chant comes unbidden, mouthed but not spoken aloud, and the wound heats until it feels like a firebrand pressed to his skin. Solas is gone from his side, perhaps for his own safety, as Orsino is unsure of his control. But he  _ has  _ to live. Has to finish this, to make it back to Skyhold where he hopes – desperately, foolishly – that Samson will be waiting for him. Blood twines over his fingers, winds through his skin as the fire spreads through his veins. 

_ Spread too thin, pushed too much _ , Despair whispers. And perhaps the demon is truly there – Orsino begins to feel cold despite the fire and the pain.  _ Give in, little one. Death is all that awaits you this time _ .

And he is fading but even now, lying in the muck with his eyes drooping closed, Orsino musters enough strength to wrap his silent mouth around the word  _ No _ .

The world falls away to the sound of the darkspawn dragon’s dying scream.

* * *

The river is grey-green, like his mother’s eyes, and he thinks he hears her voice.  Light sparkles on the surface of it – it looks clear, and bright and deep.  But it is a lie, this river – it runs swift and shallow and his father had told him, told them all, that if he caught them near it, he’d tan their hides.  But Samson doesn’t care.  He likes it here, the cool, flat rocks, the little fish that leap high in the air and splash back down.  It’s nice here.  Nicer than

d  a  r  k  n  e  s  s.

“Don’t you laugh at him,” he snarls up at the taller boy, fists clenched at his side.  “Don’t you  _ fuckin’ dare _ , or I’ll…”

“Or you’ll  _ what _ , Raleigh?  Gonna run cryin’ to your mama again?” He can’t see the other boy’s face – his shape blocks out the sun, the bright springtime sun, new grass smell in his nose, the sound of the Minanter running just two streets over.  He sniffs, glaring up at the taller boy, “No,” he tells him, and swiftly, out comes his fist, drives deep into the other boy’s gut and he

Maker, the taste of blood, his head aches, he can’t

  
  


Sino.

“‘Sino!” he tries to cry, struggling up, his eyes flying open.  The pain in his head is huge, brutal, and he gasps and loses consciousness again.

But it is shallower this time, and Samson eventually awakens once more.  Everything is completely silent – it seems like the whole world apart from him has gone away.  Slowly, he lifts a hand to his head, presses it gingerly against his temple and winces.   _ Coulda died _ , he thinks dispassionately, and tries to squash the question which follows, fails utterly –  _ If he’s gone, then what’s the point _ ?

_ There’s always a point _ , he tells himself sternly, and moves his body so that he’s looking in the direction of the path to Skyhold.  Huge fissures rupture the earth; great trees lie scattered as if tossed by giants.  He can see swathes of the mountain torn down, long streaks of still-glowing fires.   _ That’s it then _ , he thinks,  _ Wonder who won? _  Would the world look suddenly different if Corypheus had won?  Samson thinks so, feels a tentative joy in his heart that perhaps the side which Orsino had chosen had been triumphant.  Tears blur his vision, and he wipes them impatiently away.  So many lives lost.   _ My boys _ , he wonders, then shakes his head, gasping as the pain makes its presence known again.   _ Come on, you idiot _ , he chides himself.  _ You gotta think about where to next.  No sense in sitting here waiting for some hungry animal to decide you’re dinner. _

But where can he go?  He looks again at Skyhold.  Trees block the path, and he sees that, not two wheels further up the mountain, a gaping fissure slices the path neatly in two, completely cutting it off.  It would be weeks to skirt the mountain on foot to find the alternate path.   _ But ‘Sino _ , a part of his mind asks, and he sighs.  No.   _ If _ Orsino lives, and  _ if  _ he made it up the path to Skyhold, what is the likelihood that Samson will find him?  Samson sighs again, feeling tired and hungry and lonely.  His ‘Sino.  It’s hard to think that he might be… might be… Samson shakes his head again, struggling.  He bites his lip, pulls his knees up to his chest and buries his face in them, circling his arms around himself.  One breath, in, out – two.  But this feeling in his chest only deepens, and on the third exhale he sobs; the floodgates open and he cries – for all the chances won and lost, for all the words never spoken.   _ ‘Sino _ , he thinks, in the depths of his grief,  _ ‘Sino.  I love you.  I love you so much. _

  
  


Eventually, the tears dry up, leaving only a bitter ache remaining to him.  As he had spent the immediacy of his grief, the day had waned – the sun now sets behind him, painting the horizon in crimsons and golds.  Samson is utterly exhausted now, and lays down again on the gravel of the path, both unable and unwilling to seek more sufficient shelter.  The scoria bites into his skin, but he barely feels it.  The refrain  _ What can I do now?  What should I do now? _ turns and turns within him, and he sighs and closes his eyes, despair overwhelming him.

Then his breath catches in his lungs, and he scrambles up, eyes wide, staring out at the far horizon, back toward the north.  There is one chance; Redthorne.  If there is a single place on earth that he knows Orsino would return, it is Redthorne.  Does it still stand?  Could he find it if it does?  Would they take him in?   _ If it’s still there, and ‘Sino is gone _ , he thinks,  _ then they’ll know.  And if they’ll have me, then I can do what I can to protect ‘em.  I’ll smith, I’ll cook, I’ll make fuckin’ shoes for ‘em.  Anything.  And if he’s there… _

  
Samson’s eyes fill with tears again, and he sniffs.   _ Please _ , he prays, as he lays himself down on the rapidly cooling gravel,  _ Please let him be there.  Please. _  And with that thought, he sleeps.


	18. Chapter 18

Orsino,

It’s so good to hear from you! Hawke is still terrible at writing letters, and Justice keeps sending me page after page asking about the condition of the tower here at Skyhold. No matter how many times I tell him everything is fine, he keeps asking. Do you think he’s worried I’m teaching blood magic? I told him I’m not  ~~ but no one has asked to learn yet so I ~~  Also, don’t tell Anders but little Ensalin is actually a girl! She had kittens under my bed last week and I’m afraid he may come all the way here just to steal them away.

 

Elise sends her love. She’s been wonderful about keeping me on track – Josephine is still so busy managing all the nobility, I can’t imagine what I’d do without her helping me remember when all the meetings are. She’s still working on controlling her magic. It hasn’t been easy, but she remembers most of what the Circle taught so it’s just a matter of practice now. Maxwell finally figured out a way to heal the brand scar, and several other former-Tranquil have asked for the same treatment. 

 

In other news, Dagna is still working on the prosthetics for the Reds who haven’t left with Bull. They still don’t have full  ~~artik artick~~ articulation, but some of the ideas from Redthorne were really helpful when it came to building the enchantments. She’s trying to figure out if wood or metal will be better in the long run. Both are quite pretty, I think, but the metal may be better for those who want to be mercenaries. Please let me know if you have any more input!

 

I’m afraid that’s all the  good news I have, but you may be happy to know that Murray’s trial took place yesterday. Leliana finally found the proof that he was selling safe haven locations to the last pockets of rebel Templars. The execution was quick.  ~~ He was a coward who deserved more ~~

 

How are you really? I know it hasn’t been an easy year for any of us, but I can’t imagine  _ [a scribble of text in which only the words  _ “feel” “dead”  _ and  _ “Samson”  _ can be read] _ As always, I promise I will write as soon as I hear any word. Please take care of yourself. Justice says you’ve been skipping meals again, and I think Max may actually have a conniption if he gets wind of it. 

 

Your friend always,

Merrill

* * *

Every day, he wonders.

 

When he had heard the news that Corypheus had fallen, Samson was sitting in the back of a wagon full of hay, on his way north.  “Must have been livin’ under a rock!” the woman driving had chuckled, “Yup!  That little knife ear sent that old bastard packin’.  Heard she turned into a dragon!  And a good thing too!  Me’n Father were worried as anything about old Bessie!”

 

And he’d nodded, not bothering to enquire about who Bessie was, or to scoff at the idea that Merrill could turn into anything apart from maybe a sweet and daffy nug, or to ask any more questions.  The woman takes him as far as a nameless hamlet two days walk inland from the western banks of Lake Calenhad.  But the hamlet is poor, and so Samson had travelled on foot at first, then in the back of another wagon; working when he could get it, begging and sleeping in local Chantry’s and barns when he could not.  His strength returns gradually.  At first, he can only work in the lowest of manual jobs – woodcutter, ditcher, thresher.  Then, in a little village at the edge of the Bannorn, the old cobbler had laughed at one of his jokes, narrowed one eye at him in an appraising manner when Samson had told him he was looking for other work.  “Everybody needs shoes,” the old man had cackled, “Shoes is what we call a  _ travelling skill _ .  Yep.  They’ll really keep you moving.”

“That’s what I’m after, old timer,” Samson had grinned, and the old man had laughed again.

 

It comes back to him slowly – watching his father thread the bristle, the smell of the wax and the leather.  The old man’s high voice echoes around his tiny home as he shows Samson all the aspects of his craft; correcting his hold on the awl, showing him how to form the leather around a last.  Then, one day, the man smiles gently and shakes his head.  “I been guessin’ it’s time for you to move on,” he says, and totters to an old chest, bringing out a huge leather bag.  The old man puts it on top of the chest, opens it, and smiles softly at what he sees inside.  “Now, now,” he grins, turning slightly to tell Samson, “I know y’won’t stay here forever.  Y’can’t.  Y’got this  _ Sino _ of yours to find.”

 

Samson had gaped at the man, unable to speak as the old man had doubled over, cackling again.  “Ah, your face!  Didja not know you talk about him when you’re sleeping?  It’s worse’n the snoring some nights!”

Samson had scowled, rubbed his hand over his cheek, and the man had quickly sobered.  “Now, now,” he’d repeated, “We all got our wonderings.  This Sino’s one of yours.  So you go find ‘em – you gotta.  Can’t wait forever.  That’s why I want you to have this.”

 

He gestured inside the bag, and Samson had risen, taken a step to look inside.  In the dim light was a set of cobbling tools; worn with age and a little rusted in places, but serviceable enough to make repairs.  There were no lasts – he would not be able to make new, but he could repair.  Inhaling, he’d looked at the old man, who stared right back, grinning even as tears stood in his eyes.  “M’wife’s been gone six years, and I got no kids now,” he murmured, casting his gaze back into the bag, “War took ‘em both, s’far as I know.  Had a boy who was a mage; went up to Kirkwall, luckily before Kinloch went to shit.  Don’t know what happened to him after that.  My girl was a Templar; wanted to join to help him, protect him.  But they sent her to Jainen, over the other side of the Bannorn.  Last I heard, she was marchin’ up to Redoubt.”  The man pauses, then says sadly, “My Karl.  My Lorie.”

 

They were silent for a time, then the man had looked up and smiled.  “They were good kids, and I had a good life.  Maybe you find this Sino of yours.  Maybe you’ll have a good life too.”

“Yeah,” Samson says, and has to clear his throat.  He sniffs and shrugs.  “Maybe.”

“Maybe’s better’n nothing,” the old man grins, then brushes at his eyes.  “G’won then.  You can get to West Hill before it’s dark, if you leave now.”

 

And so he had.  He’d worked with another cobbler in West Hill, the weeks moving into months, every day looking at the boats beginning the journey across the Waking Sea to the Marches, their bellies fat with wool and iron from Fereldan.  It was close to six months until he’d managed to save enough for the passage.  And the voyage was rough, the sea choppy with the change in the spring winds.  The captain had cursed himself for his largess at carrying a passenger, the crew had been sullen, but Samson knew that every moment brought him closer to the truth, closer to knowing what had happened to Orsino.  And eventually, almost a year after the fall of Corypheus, he finds himself back on a Kirkwall dock, the city moving around him as it had once, so very long ago.  “I’m comin’, Sino,” he murmurs to himself, and smiles.

* * *

First Enchanter Orsino,

Lieutenant Cremisius has been too busy the last few days to reply in a timely manner, so I volunteered to pen a reply. I hope you don’t mind this isn’t directly from him or the Chief.

Thank you for your concern – everyone is in good health and we’ve had no lingering effects from the red lyrium, at least none that can be observed. No one’s gone into withdrawal either, strangely. I’ve sent more detailed observations to the Inquisitor and the Arcanist, but we’re starting to think we may be clear of the aftereffects altogether.

The Chief is considering heading up to Tevinter, from what I’ve gleaned from Cremisius. His official reasoning has to do with checking up on the Avvar the Inquisitor  assigned exiled to the border, but I think it’s much more likely he’s planning to meet up with that Tevinter magister. (Their romance is rather lovely. I expect the dwarf author – Tethras? – is writing something on it. It was a scandalous topic in the kitchens before we left.)

Finally, an order for several weapons and cooling runes is attached. Some of the southern-bred are already beginning to complain of the heat. Payment will be sent with this letter. Please send a raven with an estimated time of delivery so we may coordinate a pick-up point.

Sincerely,

Sophie R.

Bull’s Chargers

 

~~ P.S. I know I shouldn  ~~ ~~ if you hear anything about him, please let us know ~~

 

A rap on the door makes Orsino pause in reading the letter, looking up to see Paloma standing in the open doorway, a breeze blowing curls in her face even as she curtsies slightly. “Messere, the Orlesian traders arrived half an hour ago and are ready to meet with you.”

Orsino sighs, feeling tired already at the mere prospect of dealing with more masked, holier-than-thou merchants. His only comfort is Anders’ blanket permission to kick out anyone who starts using words such as “rabbit” when not referring to pelts. By now most traders have been thoroughly vetted, or at least knew when to keep their racist tongues curbed when in Redthorne proper. “Very well. I’ll be along shortly, thank you.”

Paloma nods and turns to leave, and in doing so reveals the thorny flowering vine coiled around her messy bun. In an emergency, he knows, the vine can be used as both a weapon and defense. The young woman has come far in the years since she first apprenticed to Merrill, and her knowledge of Keeper magic is an asset that only grows over time… He shakes himself out of that line of thought and stands. What feels like every joint in his body pops, age and hours of laboring over paperwork taking their toll on him. The letter from Sophie is placed in a neatly-organized drawer and Orsino finally leaves his cabin for the first time since breakfast.    
The sun shines strongly even through partial cloud cover, and Orsino finds himself shrugging off his overcoat to tuck under his arm in the afternoon heat. Even from far away he can hear the bustle, mages and other Redthorne folk clamoring to get first pick of the personal wares brought by the caravan. As expected, the square is crowded when he reaches it, people clustered around interim stalls set up near Redthorne’s front gate. 

He casts his eye about for a group of more finely-dressed people in masks, trying to find the guild masters before they can ambush him with yet more trade negotiations. The noise makes his head throb, and a great part of Orsino wishes he could just turn heel and walk back to his cabin. But then Anders or – Maker forbid – Hawke would be the one left negotiating, and he shudders to think of how much money- 

Orsino’s thoughts stutter and he snaps to attention, every muscle in his body going taut as he turns his gaze back to a man standing by the wagon nearest the gate. The man is looking around too, and when he turns Orsino is struck by the jut of his cheekbone, the crooked line of a nose that he would know anywhere. 

It feels like a blow to his chest, all the emotions that boil to the surface roiling, winding tight in him and exploding into something more volatile than just happiness alone can possibly achieve. He’s moving in an instant, diving into the crowd and only saved from shoving when people glimpse his face and move away quickly.  _ Raleigh! He’s alive! _ his heart sings, even as his head fills with white noise, blanking on everything except that last, desperate expression in Samson’s eyes as he slapped Orsino’s horse and bade him to run. 

He sees the instant Samson notices his presence, the man’s face lighting up with pure joy and relief as he stumbles forward to meet Orsino halfway. 

“‘Sino, ‘Sino,  _ fuck _ , I can’t believe it’s you, you’re really alri–”

Then Orsino pulls a fist back and punches him as hard as he can. 

It’s not very hard, but Samson lets out a shocked sound as he stumbles back two steps with a hand to his face. Cries of alarm go up around them but Orsino ignores them in the face of his surging  _ angerdesperationrelief _ as he steps into Samson’s space once more. Before the man can react, even to speak, Orsino pulls the hand away from Samson’s face and yanks him into a kiss.

* * *

_ Keep breathing _ , Samson tells himself, his lips pressed to Orsino’s mouth, the heat of their bodies together, Maker, the  _ smell  _ of him, how could he have forgotten it?  His cheek smarts from Orsino’s blow, but he grins in spite of it, holds Orsino to him all the tighter for it.  No dream would have reacted that way – nobody else would have looked at him like that.   _ Like I was the world _ , he thinks, and kisses Orsino more fiercely, fingers clutched into the fabric of his jerkin.

Eventually, they break apart, panting.  Samson becomes aware of the silent stares of the crowd of merchants and Redthorners, and swallows, grinning nervously at Orsino.  “‘Sino,” he murmurs, “Can we go somewhere?  Or…”

The man lets out a harsh breath. “Yes, let’s go. I need- Let’s talk in private,” Orsino mutters, casting a look at the Orlesians in particular, and takes Samson’s hand.  He pulls him back through the crowd of onlookers, who part willingly enough.  “Fi-First Enchanter?” asks a young elf girl. “But what about the..?”

“They can go hang for all I care. Tell them they’ll have to wait until I’m good and ready,” Orsino growls, and Samson laughs a little, shrugging at the woman, who looks shocked.  His heart feels so light, he can hardly believe it, and he gasps in a breath, feeling his eyes prickle and fill with tears.  

 

Orsino leads him to a small structure, throws open the door and pulls him inside.  Samson cannot help it – he laughs again.  It is only when Orsino closes the door behind him, gesturing to a torch on the wall to light it with a magical flame, that the sense of some delirious dream begins to lift.

“‘Sino,” he says, as the elf approaches him, “I… I… uh…” He grinds his teeth together, panting, words filling his head, his throat, choking him.  He sobs once, loud in the hush, and covers his mouth, his eyes wide.  He stares at Orsino, who meets his gaze levelly, the sad, strange expression on his face lifting as he steps close to Samson, taking his hand gently from his mouth, wrapping his arms around him and laying his head on his chest.  “‘Sino,” Samson sobs into his hair, kissing it even as his tears fall, “I thought… Maker, I thought that… I’m so sorry, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t… I wanted…”

 

“Hush,” Orsino chides him. “Lee, you don’t have to explain.  I thought it too.  After the chaos left by the Breach and the battle… there was no way to know. And when no one could find trace of you, I… I couldn’t stay.”

For a time, Samson is lost to the depths of his relief.  He is here, here with Orsino, and nothing else in the world matters.  And then, as his tears dry up, he sighs, pulling back to look at Orsino, who stares back up at him, smiling.  “Can’t believe it,” Samson tells him, “You’re really here.  I was… Maker, I was hopin’, but I never thought you’d really be here.  I only really believed it when you punched me in the face.”  He grins, touches his cheek, “You got a weak hook, old man.”

 

“Did...did I hurt you?” Orsino asks, concern in his eyes, and Samson laughs.  

“Nah,” he admits, “But I’m sure I could feel better if you kissed me again.”  He grins, “For luck, and that?”

Orsino only shakes his head, tears gleaming in the low light, and pulls him closer to kiss again.   _ Keep breathing,  _ Samson tells himself,  _ Keep breathing and never let him go again. _

* * *

Later, long after the dramatics of their reunion are done with and Orsino has shoved all the Orlesians off on Anders, he lies in bed next to Samson, head pillowed on his arm. The man fell asleep almost immediately, the strain of his journey evident in his weary posture and the strain around his eyes. His pack lies next to the door, unopened. Orsino dares to hope that, perhaps, the man will unpack it soon, let his things diffuse among Orsino’s belongings. He doesn’t know – they didn’t speak of the future, too wrapped up in the joy of physical contact and catching up on the past year.

Orsino reaches out, just barely touching as he follows scars left by the rake of bear claws over Samson’s face. The moonlight drifting through his window sets them in stark contrast against the pale silver of the rest of his face, and Orsino smiles tiredly as Samson snuffles and turns into the touch in his sleep. It feels… wonderous, this moment, where the anger has fled and all of Orsino is awash with bone-deep contentment. Here is Raleigh, who swiftly became the most important person in his life and just as swiftly disappeared from it. And now he has him back.

It doesn’t matter if he wants to stay. Orsino knows if Samson picks up his pack tomorrow and walks out the door, he will follow, Redthorne be damned. But he hopes.

He sighs and as if in response, the arm around his waist pulls him closer. Orsino lets his hand smooth over Samson’s cheek one more time before he closes his eyes, hugging him back. He won’t let go, never again.

**Author's Note:**

> So one day tsurai asked around if anyone wanted to RP with them, and the lovely Aby volunteered. Five months later, we present to you this gem. 
> 
> You can find [tsurai](http://tsuraiwrites.tumblr.com/) and [aby](http://littlexabyss.tumblr.com/) on tumblr for updates and back-and-forths about being angst mongers and how writing porn together strengthens friendships.


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